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THE 

TIN SOLDIER 


BY 

TEMPLE BAILEY 

AUTHOR' OF 

GLORY OF YOUTH, 
CONTRARY MARY, Etc. 


fHiJA 


NEW YORK 

GROSSET & DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Made in the United States of America 













COPYRIGHT 
19 18 BY 
THE PENN 
PUBLISHING 
COMPANY 





Th* Tin Soldier 




CONTENTS 


BOOK ONE 
ON THE SHELF 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Toy Shop ...... 9 

II Cinderella.28 

III Drusilla.39 

IV The Question ..50 

V The Slacker.. . 65 

VI The Promise.76 

VII Hilda.89 

VIII The Shadowed Room .... 102 

IX Rose-Color!.115 

X A Man with Money.132 

XI Hilda Wears a Crown .... 143 
XII When the Morning Stars Sang . 154 

XIII Are Men Made Only for This? . 166 

XIV Shining Souls.186 

XV Hilda Breaks the Rules . . . 198 

XVI Jean-Joan ....... 215 

XVII The White Cat . . . . . . 225 

BOOK TWO 

THROUGH THE CRACK 

XVIII The Broad Highway .... 245 
XIX Hilda Shakes a Tree .... 26(J; 












CONTENTS 


CHAPTER P AGE 

XX The Vision of Brave Women . . 278 

XXI Derry’s Wife.302 

XXII Jean Plays Proxy. 313 

BOOK THKEE 
THE BUGLE CALLS 

XXIII The Empty House ..... 327 

XXIV The Singing Woman .... 358 

XXV White Violets. 376 

XXVI The Hope of the World . . . 387 

XXVII Marching Feet. 403 

XXVIII Six Days .427 

XXIX 66 He Came to the Wars! ” . . . 448 








BOOK ONE 


i; i i 

ON THE SHELF 

“I cannot bear it,” the Tin Soldier said, standing on the 
:.belf “ I cannot bear it. It is so melancholy here. Let me 
rather go to the wars and lose my arms and legs.” 

Hans Andebsen : The Old House . 


’»• 







*X l. 








4 

















) 

















1 







* 














THE TIN SOLDIER 




CHAPTER I 

THE TOY SHOP 

The lights shining through the rain on the smooth 
street made of it a golden river. 

The shabby old gentleman navigated unsteadily 
until he came to a corner. A lamp-post offered safe 
harbor. He steered for it and took his bearings. 
On each side of the glimmering stream loomed dark 
houses. A shadowy blot on the triangle he knew to 
be a church. Beyond the church was the intersect¬ 
ing avenue. Down the avenue were the small ex¬ 
clusive shops which were gradually encroaching on 
the residence section. 

The shabby old gentleman took out his watch. 
It was a fine old watch, not at all in accord with 
the rest of him. It was almost six. The darkness 
of the November afternoon had come at five. The 
shabby old gentleman swung away from the lamp- 
post and around the corner, then bolted trium¬ 
phantly into the Toy Shop. 

“ Here I am,” he said, with an attempt at buoy¬ 
ancy, and sat down. 


9 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ Oh,” said the girl behind the counter, “ you are 
wet.” 

“ Well, I said I’d come, didn’t I? Rain or shine? 
In five minutes I should have been too late — shop 
closed —” He lurched a little towards her. 

She backed away from him. “ You — you are —- 
wet — won’t you take cold —? ” 

“ Never take cold — glad to get here —” He 
smiled and shut his eyes, opened them and smiled 
again, nodded and recovered, nodded and came to 
rest with his head on the counter. 

The girl made a sudden rush for the rear door of 
the shop. “ Look here, Emily. Poor old duck! ” 

Emily, standing in the doorway, surveyed the 
sleeping derelict scornfully. “ You’d better put 
him out. It is six o’clock, Jean —” 

“He was here yesterday — and he was furious 
because I wouldn’t sell him any soldiers. He said 
he wanted to make a bonfire of the Prussian ones — 
and to buy the French and English ones for his 
son,” she laughed. 

“ Of course you told him they were not for sale.” 

“ Yes. But he insisted. And when he went 
away he told me he’d come again and bring a lot of 
money —” 

The shabby old gentleman, rousing at the psycho 
logical moment, threw on the counter a roll of bills 
and murmured brokenly: 


10 


THE TOY SHOP 


“ * Ten little soldiers fighting on the line, 

One was blown to glory, and then there were nine — ! ’ ** 

His head fell forward and again he slept. 

“Disgusting,” said Emily Bridges; “of course 
we'ye got to get him out.” 

Getting him out, however, offered difficulties. 
He was a very big old gentleman, and they were 
little women. 

“We might call the police—” 

“ Oh, Emily—” 

“ Well, if you can suggest anything better. We 
must close the shop.” 

“We might put him in a taxi — and send him 
home.” 

“ He probably hasn’t any home.” 

“ Don’t be so pessimistic — he certainly has 
money.” 

“ You don’t know where he got it. You can’t be 
too careful, Jean—” 

The girl, touching the old man’s shoulder, asked, 
“ Where do you live? ” 

He murmured indistinctly. 

“Where?” she bent her ear down to him. 

Waking, he sang: 

“ Two little soldiers, blowing up a Hun — 

The darned thing — exploded — 

And then there was— One—” 

“Oh, Emily, did you ever hear anything so 
funny? ” 


11 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Emily couldn’t see the funny side of it. It was 
tragic and it was disconcerting. “ I don’t know 
what to do. Perhaps you’d better call a taxi.’’ 

“ He’s shivering, Emily. I believe I’ll make him 
a cup of chocolate.” 

“ Dear child, it will be a lot of trouble —” 

“ I’d like to do it — really.” 

“ Very well.” Emily was not unsympathetic, but 
she had had a rather wearing life. Her love of toys 
and of little children had kept her human, other¬ 
wise she had a feeling that she might have hard¬ 
ened into chill spinsterhood. 

As Jean disappeared through the door, the elder 
woman moved about the shop, setting it in order 
for the night. It was a labor of love to put the 
dolls to bed, to lock the glass doors safely on the 
puffy rabbits and woolly dogs and round-eyed cats, 
to close the drawers on the tea-sets and Lilliputian 
kitchens, to shut into boxes the tin soldiers that 
their queer old customer had craved. 

For more than a decade Emily Bridges had kept 
the shop. Originally it had been a Thread and 
Needle Shop, supplying people who did not care to 
go downtown for such wares. 

Then one Christmas she had put in a few 
things to attract the children. The children had 
come, and gradually there had been more toys 
— until at last she had found herself the owmer 
of a Toy Shop, with the thread and needle and 
12 


THE TOY SHOP 

other staid articles stuck negligently in the back¬ 
ground. 

Yet in the last three years it had been hard to 
keep up the standard which she had set for herself. 
Toys were made in Germany, and the men who had 
made them were in the trenches, the women who 
had helped were in the fields — the days when the 
bisque babies had smiled on happy working-house¬ 
holds were over. There was death and darkness 
where once the rollicking clowns and dancing dolls 
had been set to mechanical music. 

Jean, coming back with the chocolate, found 
Emily wnth a great white plush elephant in her 
arms. His trappings were of red velvet and there 
was much gold; he was the last of a line of assorted 
sizes. 

There had always been a white elephant in Miss 
Emily’s window. Painfully she had seen her sup¬ 
ply dwundle. For this last of the herd, she had a 
feeling far in excess of his value, such as a collector 
might have for a rare coin of a certain minting, or 
a bit of pottery of a pre-historic period. 

She had not had the heart to sell him. “ I may 
never get another. And there are none made like 
him in America.” 

“ After the war —” Jean had hinted. 

Miss Emily had flared, “ Do you think I shall buy 
toys of Germany after this war? ” 

u Good for you, Emily. I was afraid you might.” 
13 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


But tonight a little pensively Miss Emily 
wrapped the old mastodon up in a white cloth. “ I 
believe Ell take him home with me. People are al¬ 
ways asking to buy him, and it’s hard to explain.” 

“ I should say it is. I had an awful time with 
him,” she indicated the old gentleman, “ yesterday.” 

She set the tray down on the counter. There 
was a slim silver pot on it, and a thin green cup. 
She poked the sleeping man with a tentative finger. 
“ Won’t you please wake up and have some choco¬ 
late.” 

Bousing, he came slowly to the fact of her hos¬ 
pitality. “ My dear young lady,” he said, with 
a trace of courtliness, “ you shouldn’t have 
troubled —” and reached out a trembling hand for 
the cup. There was a ring on the hand, a seal ring 
with a coat of arms. As he drank the chocolate 
eagerly, he spilled some of it on his shabby old 
coat. 

He was facing the door. Suddenly it opened, 
and his cup fell with a crash. 

A young man came in. He, too, was shabby, but 
not as shabby as the old gentleman. He had on a 
dilapidated rain coat, and a soft hat. He took off 
his hat, showing hair that was of an almost silvery 
fairness. His eyebrows made a dark pencilled line 
— his eyes were gray. It was a striking face, given 
a slightly foreign air by a small mustache. 

He walked straight up to the old man, laid his 
14 


TEE TOY SHOP 


hand on Ms shoulder, “ Hello, Dad.” Then, anx¬ 
iously, to the two women, “ I hope he hasn’t 
troubled you. He isn’t quite — himself.” 

Jean nodded. “ I am so glad you came. We 
didn’t know T what to do.” 

“ I’ve been looking for him —■” He bent to pick 
up the broken cup. “ I’m dreadfully sorry. You 
must let me pay for it.” 

“ Oh, no.” 

“ Please.” He was looking at it. “ It was valu¬ 
able? ” 

“Yes,” Jean admitted, “it was one of Emily’s 
precious pets.” 

“ Please don’t think any more about it,” Emily 
begged. “ You had better get your father home 
at once, and put him to bed with a hot water 
bottle.” 

Now that the shabby youth was looking at her 
with troubled eyes, Emily found herself softening 
towards the old gentleman. Simply as a derelict 
she had not cared what became of him. But as the 
father of this son, she cared. 

“ Thank you, I will. We must be going, Dad.” 

The old gentleman stood up. “ Wait a minute — 
I came for tin soldiers — Derry —” 

“ They are not for sale,” Miss Emily stated. 
“ They are made in Germany. I can’t get any 
more. I have withdrawn everything of the kind 
from my selling stock.” 


15 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

The shabby old gentleman murmured disconso¬ 
lately. 

“ Oh, Emily/’ said the girl behind the counter, 
“ don’t you think we might —? ” 

Derry Drake glanced at her with sudden interest. 
She had an unusual voice, quick and thrilling. It 
matched her beauty, which was of a rare quality — 
white skin, blue eyes, crinkled hair like beaten 
copper. 

“ I don’t see,” he said, smiling for the first time, 
“ what Dad wants of tin soldiers.” 

“ To make ’em fight,” said the shabby old man, 
“ we’ve got to have some fighting blood in the 
family.” 

The smile was struck from the young man’s face. 
Out of a dead silence, he said at last, “ You were 
very good to look after him. Come, Dad.” His 
voice was steady, but the flush that had flamed in 
his cheeks was still there, as he put his arm about 
the shaky old man and led him to the door. 

“ Thank you both again,” he said from the thresh¬ 
old. Then, with his head high, he steered his un¬ 
steady parent out into the rain. 

It was late when the two women left the shop. 
Miss Emily, struggling down the block with her 
white elephant, found, in a few minutes, harbor in 
her boarding house. But Jean lived in the more 
fashionable section beyond Dupont Circle. Her 
father was a doctor with a practice among the older 
16 


THE TOY SHOP 


district people, who, in spite of changing adminis¬ 
trations and fluctuating populations, had managed 
to preserve their family traditions and social iden¬ 
tity. 

Dr. McKenzie did not always dine at home. But 
tonight when Jean came down he was at the head 
of the table. He was a big, handsome man with 
crinkled hair like his daughter’s, copper-colored 
and cut close to his rather classic head. 

Hilda Merritt was also at the table. She was a 
trained nurse, who, having begun life as the Doc¬ 
tor’s office-girl, had, gradually, after his wife’s 
death, assumed the management of his household. 
Jean was not fond of her. She had repeatedly 
begged that her dear Emily might take Miss Mer¬ 
ritt’s place. 

“ But Hilda is much younger,” her father had 
contended, “ and much more of a companion for 
you.” 

“ She isn’t a companion at all, Daddy. We 
haven’t the same thoughts.” 

But Hilda had stayed on, and Jean had sought 
her dear Emily's company in the little shop. 
Sometimes she waited on customers. Sometimes 
she worked in the rear room. It was always a 
great joke to feel that she was really helping. In 
all her life her father had never let her do a useful 
thing. 

The table was lighted with candles, and there was 
17 


i 


TEE TIE SOLDIER 


a silver dish of fruit in the center. The dinner was 
well-served by a trim maid. 

Jean ate very little. Her father noticed her lack 
of appetite, “Why don’t you eat your dinner, dear? ” 

“ I had chocolate at Emily’s.” 

“ I don’t think she ought to go there so often,” 
Miss Merritt complained. 

“ Why not? ” Jean’s voice was like the crack of 
a whip. 

“ It is so late when you get home. It isn’t safe.” 

“ I can always send the car for you, Jean,” her 
father said. “ I don’t care to have you out alone.” 

“Having the car isn’t like walking. You know 
it isn’t, Daddy, with the rain against your cheeks 
and the wind —” 

Dr. McKenzie’s quick imagination was fired. 
His eyes were like Jean’s, lighted from within. 

“ I suppose it is all right if she comes straight 
up Connecticut Avenue, Hilda? ” 

Miss Merritt had long white hands which lay 
rather limply on the table. Her arms were bare. 
She was handsome in a red-cheeked, blond fashion. 

“ Of course if you think it is all right, Doctor—” 

“ It is up to J ean. If she isn’t afraid, we needn’t 
worry.” 

“ I’m not afraid of anything.” 

He smiled at her. She was so pretty and slim 
and feminine in her white gown, with a string of 
pearls on her white neck. He liked pretty things 
18 


THE TOY SHOP 


and he liked her fearlessness. He had never been 
afraid. It pleased him that his daughter should 
share his courage. 

“ Perhaps, if I am not too busy, I will come for 
you the next time you go to the shop. Would 
walking with me break the spell of the wind and 
wet? ” 

“ You know it wouldn’t. It would be quite — 
heavenly — Daddy.” 

After dinner, Doctor McKenzie read the evening 
paper. Jean sat on the rug in front of the fire and 
knitted for the soldiers. She had made sweaters 
until it seemed sometimes as if she saw life through 
a haze of olive-drab. 

“ I am going to knit socks next,” she told her 
father. 

He looked up from his paper. “ Did you ever 
stop to think what it means to a man over there 
when a woman says ‘ Pm going to knit socks ’? ” 

Jean nodded. That was one of the charms which 
her father had for her. He saw things. It was 
tired soldiers at this moment, marching in the cold 
and needing — socks. 

Hilda, having no vision, remarked from the cor¬ 
ner where she sat with her book, “ There’s no sense 
in all this killing — I wish we’d kept out of it.” 

u Wasn’t there any sense,” said little Jean from 
the hearth rug, “in Bunker Hill and Valley 
Forge? ” 


19 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Hilda evaded that. “ Anyhow, I'm glad they've 
stopped playing the ‘ Star-Spangled Banner’ at the 
movies. I'm tired of standing up." 

Jean voiced her scorn. “ I'd stand until I 
dropped, rather than miss a note of it." 

Doctor McKenzie interposed: 

“ ‘ The time has come/ the Walrus said, 

‘ To talk of many things, 

Of shoes — and ships — and sealing wax — 

Of cabbages — and kings —’ ” 

“ Oh, Daddy," Jean reproached him, “ I should 
think you might be serious." 

“ I am not just twenty — and I have learned to 
bank my fires. And you mustn't take Hilda too 
literally. She doesn't mean all that she says, do 
you, Hilda? " 

He patted Miss Merritt on the shoulder as he 
went out. Jean hated that. And Hilda’s blush. 

With the Doctor gone, Hilda shut herself up in 
the office to balance her books. 

Jean went on with her knitting. Hilda did not 
knit. When she was not helping in the office or in 
the house, her hands lay idle in her lap. 

Jean’s mind, as she worked, was on those long 
white hands of Hilda's. Her own hands had short 
fingers like her father’s. Her mother's hands had 
been slender and transparent. Hilda's hands were 
not slender, they had breadth as well as length, and 
20 


THE TOY SHOP 


the skin was thick. Even the whiteness was like 
the flesh of a fish, pale and flabby. No, there was 
no beauty at all in Hilda’s hands. 

Once Jean had criticised them to her father. “ I 
think they are ugly.” 

“ They are useful hands, and they have often 
helped me.” 

“ I like Emily’s hands much better.” 

“ Oh, you and your Emily,” he had teased. 

Yet Jean’s words came back to the Doctor the 
next night, as he sat in the Toy Shop waiting to 
escort his daughter home. 

Miss Emily was serving a customer, a small boy 
in a red coat and baggy trousers. A nurse stood 
behind the small boy, and played, as it were, 
Chorus. She wore a blue cape and a long blue bow 
on the back of her hat. 

The small boy was having the mechanical toys 
wound up for him. He expressed a preference for 
the clowns, but didn’t like the colors. 

“ I want him boo’,” he informed Miss Emily, 
“ he’s for a girl, and she yikes boo’.” 

“Blue,” said the nurse austerely, “you know 
your mother doesn’t like baby talk, Teddy.” 

“ Ble-yew —” said the small boy, carefully. 

“ Blue clowns,” Miss Emily stated, sympatheti¬ 
cally, “ are hard to get. Most of them are red. I 
have the nicest thing that I haven’t shown you. 
But it costs a lot —” 


21 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


a It’s a birfday present,” said the small boy. 

“ Birthday,” from the Chorus. 

“ Be-yirthday,” was the amended version, “ and I 
want it nice.” 

Miss Emily brought forth from behind the glass 
doors of a case a small green silk head of lettuce. 
She set it on the counter, and her fingers found the 
key, then clickety-click, clickety-click, she wound it 
up. It played a faint tune, the leaves opened — a 
rabbit with a wide-frilled collar rose in the center. 
He turned from side to side, he waggled his ears, 
and nodded his head, he winked an eye; then he 
disappeared, the leaves closed, the music stopped. 

The small boy was entranced. “ It’s boo-ful —” 

“ Beautiful —” from the background. 

“ Be-yewtiful —. I’ll take it, please.” 

It was while Miss Emily was winding the toy 
that Dr. McKenzie noticed her hands. They were 
young hands, quick and delightful hands. They 
hovered over the toy, caressingly, beat time to the 
music, rested for a moment on the shoulders of the 
little boy as he stood finally with upturned face and 
tied-up parcel. 

“ I’m coming adain,” he told her. 

“ Again —.” 

“ Ag-yain —,” patiently. 

u I hope you will.” Miss Emily held out her 
hand. She did not kiss him. He was a boy, and 
she knew better. 


22 


THE TOY SHOP 


When he had gone, importantly, Emily saw the 
Doctor's eyes upon her. “ I hated to sell it,” she 
said, with a sigh; “ goodness knows when I shall get 
another. But I can’t resist the children —” 

He laughed. “ You are a miser, Emily.” 

He had known her for many years. She was his 
wife’s distant cousin, and had been her dearest 
friend. She had taught in a private school before 
she opened her shop, and Jean had been one of her 
pupils. Since Mrs. McKenzie’s death it had been 
Emily who had mothered Jean. 

The Doctor had always liked her, but without en¬ 
thusiasm. His admiration of women depended 
largely on their looks. His wife had meant more 
to him than that, but it had been her beauty which 
had first held him. 

Emily Bridges had been a slender and diffident 
girl. She had kept her slenderness, but she had 
lost her diffidence, and she had gained an air of dis¬ 
tinction. She dressed well, her really pretty feet 
were always carefully shod and her hair carefully 
waved. Yet she was one of the women who occupy 
the background rather than the foreground of men’s 
lives — the kind of woman for whom a man must 
be a Columbus, discovering new worlds for himself. 

“ You are a miser,” the Doctor repeated. 

“ Wouldn’t you be, under the same circum¬ 
stances? If it were, for example, surgical instru¬ 
ments—anaesthetics—? And you knew that when 
23 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


they were gone you wouldn't get any more?” 

He did not like logic in a woman. He wanted 
to laugh and tease. “ Jean told me about the white 
elephant.” 

“ Well, what of it? I have him at home — safe. 
In a big box — with moth-balls —” Her lips 
twitched. “ Oh, it must seem funny to anyone who 
doesn’t feel as I do.” 

The door of the rear room opened, and Jean came 
in, carrying in her arms an assortment of strange 
creatures which she set in a row on the floor in 
front of her father. 

“ There?” she asked, “what do you think of 
them? ” 

They were silhouettes of birds and beasts, made 
of wood, painted and varnished. But such ducks 
had never quacked, such geese had never waddled, 
such dogs had never barked — fantastic as a night¬ 
mare — too long — too broad — exaggerated out of 
all reality, they might have marched with Alice * 
from Wonderland or from behind the Looking 
Glass. 

“ I made them, Daddy.” 

“ You — ” 

“ Yes, do you like them? ” 

“ Aren’t they a bit — uncanny? ” 

“ We’ve sold dozens; the children adore them.” 

“And you haven’t told me you were doing it. 
Why?” 


24 


THE TOY SHOP 


u I wanted yon to see them first — a surprise. 
We call them the Lovely Dreams, and we made the 
ducks green and the pussy cats pink because that’s 
the way the children see them in their own little 
minds —” 

She was radiant. “And I am making money, 
Daddy. Emily had such a hard time getting toys 
after the war began, so we thought we’d try. And 
we worked out these. I get a percentage on all 
sales.” 

He frowned. “ I am not sure that I like that.” 

“ Why not? ” 

“ Don’t I give you money enough? ” 

“ Of course. But this is different.” 

“ How different? ” 

“ It is my own. Don’t you see? ” 

Being a man he did not see, but Miss Emily did. 
“ Any work that is worth doing at all is worth be¬ 
ing paid for. You know that, Doctor.” 

He did know it, but he didn’t like to have a 
woman tell him. “ She doesn’t need the money.” 

“ I do. I am giving it to the Red Cross. Please 
don’t be stuffy about it, Daddy.” 

“ Am I stuffy? ” 

“ Yes.” 

He tried to redeem himself by a rather tardy en¬ 
thusiasm and succeeded. Jean brought out more 
Lovely Dreams, until a grotesque procession 
stretched across the room. 

25 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


u Tomorrow,” she announced, triumphantly, 
“ well put them in the window, and you’ll see the 
children coming.” 

As she carried them away, Doctor McKenzie said 
to Emily, “ It seems strange that she should want 
to do it.” 

“ Not at all. She needs an outlet for her ener¬ 
gies.” 

“ Oh, does she? ” 

“ If she weren’t your daughter, you’d know it.” 

On the way home he said, “ I am very proud of 
you, my dear.” 

Jean had tucked her arm through his. It was 
not raining, but the sky was full of ragged clouds, 
and the wind blew strongly. They felt the push of 
it as they walked against it. 

“ Oh,” she said, with her cheek against his rough 
coat, “ are you proud of me because of my green 
ducks and my pink pussy cats? ” 

But she knew it was more than that, although he 
laughed, and she laughed with him, as if his pride 
in her was a thing which they took lightly. But 
they both walked a little faster to keep pace with 
their quickened blood. 

Thus their walk became a sort of triumphant 
progress. They passed the British Embassy with 
the Lion and the Unicorn watching oyer it in the 
night; they rounded the Circle and came suddenly 
upon a line of motor cars. 

26 


THE TOY SHOP 


“ The Secretary is dining a rather important corn* 
mission/’ the Doctor said; “ it was in the paper. 
They are to have a war feast — three courses, no 
wine, and limited meats and sweets.” 

They stopped for a moment as the guests de¬ 
scended from their cars and swept across the side¬ 
walk. The lantern which swung low from the 
arched entrance showed a spot of rosy color — the 
velvet wrap of a girl whose knot of dark curls 
shone above the ermine collar. A Spanish comb, 
encrusted with diamonds, was stuck at right angles 
to the knot. 

Beside the young woman in the rosy wrap walked 
a young man in a fur coat who topped her by a 
head. He had gray eyes and a small upturned mus¬ 
tache — Jean uttered an exclamation. 

“ What’s the matter? ” her father asked. 

“ Oh, nothing —” she watched the two ascend the 
stairs. “ I thought for a moment that I knew him.” 

The great door opened and closed, the rosy wrap 
and the fur coat were swallowed up. 

“Of course it couldn’t be,” Jean decided as she 
and her father continued on their wonderful way. 

“ Couldn’t be what, my dear? ” 

“ The same man, Daddy,” Jean said, and changed 
the subject. 


27 


CHAPTER II 


CINDERELLA 

The next time that Jean saw Him was at the 
theater. She and her father went to worship at 
the shrine of Mande Adams, and He was there. 

It was Jean’s yearly treat. There were, of 
course, other plays. But since her yery-small-girl- 
hood, there had been always that red-letter night 
when “ The Little Minister ” or “ Hop-o’-my- 
Thumb ” or “ Peter Pan ” had transported her 
straight from the real world to that whimsical, 
tender, delightful realm where Barrie reigns. 

Peter Pan had been the climax! 

Do you believe in fairies f 

Of course she did. And so did Miss Emily. 
And so did her father, except in certain backslid¬ 
ing moments. But Hilda didn’t. 

Tonight it was “A Kiss for Cinderella”—! 
The very name had been enough to set Jean’s 
cheeks burning and her eyes shining. 

“ Ho you remember, Daddy, that I was six when 
I first saw her, and she’s as young as ever? ” 

“ Younger.” It was at such moments that the 
Doctor was at his best. The youth in him matched 
28 


CINDERELLA 

the youth in his daughter. They were boy and girl 
together. 

And now the girl on the stage, whose undying 
youth made her the interpreter of dreams for those 
who would never grow up, wove her magic spells of 
tears and laughter. 

It was not until the first satisfying act was over 
that Jean drew a long breath and looked about her. 

The house was packed. The old theater with 
its painted curtain had nothing modern to recom¬ 
mend it. But to Jean’s mind it could not have 
been improved. She wanted not one thing changed. 
For years and years she had sat in her favorite seat 
in the seventh row of the parquet and had loved 
the golden proscenium arch, the painted goddesses, 
the red velvet hangings — she had thrilled to the 
voice and gesture of the artists who had played to 
please her. There had been “ Wang ” and “ The 
Wizard of Oz ”; “ Robin Hood ”; the tall comedian 
of “ Casey at the Bat ”; the short comedian who 
had danced to fame on his crooked legs; Mrs. Fiske, 
most incomparable Becky; Mansfield, Sothern — 
some of them, alas, already gods of yesterday! 

At first there had been matinees with her mother 
—“ The Little Princess,” over whose sorrows she 
had wept in the harrowing first act, having to be 
consoled with chocolates and the promise of 
brighter things as the play progressed. 

Now and then she had come with Hilda. But 
29 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


never when she could help it. u I ? d rather stay at 
home,” she had told her father. 

“ But —why—?” 

a Because she laughs in the wrong places.” 

Her father never laughed in the wrong places, 
and he squeezed her hand in those breathless mo¬ 
ments where words would have been desecration, 
and wiped his eyes frankly when his feelings were 
stirred. 

“ There is no one like you, Daddy,” she had told 
him, “ to enjoy things.” And so it had come about 
that he had pushed away his work on certain nights 
and, sitting beside her, had forgotten the sordid 
and suffering world which he knew so well, and 
which she knew not at all. 

As her eyes swept the house, they rested at last 
with a rather puzzled look on a stout old gentleman 
with a wide shirt-front, who sat in the right-hand 
box. He had white hair and a red face. 

Where had she seen him ? 

There were women in the box, a sparkling com¬ 
pany in white and silver, and black and diamonds, 
and green and gold. There was a big bald-headed 
man, and quite in the shadow back of them all, a 
slender youth. 

It was when the slender youth leaned forward 
to speak to the vision in white and silver that Jean 
stared and stared again. 

She knew now where she had seen the old gentle- 
30 


CINDERELLA 


man with the wide shirt front. He was the shabby 
old gentleman of the Toy Shop! And the youth 
was the shabby son! 

Yet here they were in state and elegance! As if 
a fairy godmother had waved a wand —! 

The curtain went up on a feverish little slavey 
with her mind set on going to the ball, on Our Po- 
liceman wanting a shave, on the orphans in boxes, 
on baked potato offered as hospitality by a half- 
starved hostess, on a waiting Cinderella asleep on 
a frozen doorstep. 

And then the ball — and Mona Lisa, and the 
Duchess of Devonshire, and The Girl with the 
Pitcher and the Girl with the Muff — and Cinder¬ 
ella in azure tulle and cloth-of-gold, dancing with 
the Prince at the end like mad —. 

Then the bell boomed — the lights went out — 
and after a little moment, one saw Cinderella, 
stripped of her finery, staggering up the stairs. 

Jean cried and laughed, and cried again. Yet 
even in the midst of her emotion, she found her eyes 
pulled away from that appealing figure on the stage 
to those faintly illumined figures in the box. 

When the curtain went down, her father, most 
surprisingly, bowed to the old gentleman and re¬ 
ceived in return a genial nod. 

“ Oh, do you know him? ” she demanded. 

“ Yes. It is General Drake.” 

“ Who are the others? ” 

31 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


“ I am not sure about the women. The boy in 
the back of the box is his son, DeRhymer Drake.” 

Derry! 

“ Oh,”— she had a feeling that she was not being 
quite candid with her father —“ he’s rather swank, 
isn’t he, Daddy? ” 

“Heavens, what slang! I don’t see where you 
get it. He is rich, if that’s what you mean, and 
it’s a wonder he isn’t spoiled to death. His mother 
is dead, and the General is his own worst enemy; 
eats and drinks too much, and thinks he can get 
away with it.” 

“ Are they very rich —? ” 

“ Millions, with only Derry to leave it to. He’s 
the child of a second wife.” 

Oh, lovely, lovely, lovely Cinderella, could your 
godmother do more than this? To endow two 
rained-on and shabby gentlemen with pomp and 
circumstance! 

Jean tucked her hand into her father’s, as if to 
anchor herself against this amazing tide of revela¬ 
tion. Then, as the auditorium darkened, and the 
curtain went up, she was swept along on a wave 
of emotions in which the play world and the real 
world were inextricably mixed. 

And now Our Policeman discovers that he is “ ro- 
mantical.” Cinderella finds her Prince, who isn’t 
in the least the Prince of the fairy tale, but much 
nicer under the circumstance — and the curtain 
32 


CINDERELLA 


goes down on a glass slipper stuck on the toes of 
two tiny feet and a cockney Cinderella, quite con¬ 
tent. 

“ Well,” Jean drew a long breath. 6i It was the 
loveliest ever, Daddy,” she said, as he helped her 
with her cloak. 

And it was while she stood there in that cloak 
of heavenly blue that the young man in the box 
looked down and saw her. 

He batted his eyes. 

Of course she wasn’t real. 

But when he opened them, there she was, smiling 
up into the face of the man who had helped her into 
that heavenly garment. 

It came to him, quite suddenly, that his father 
had bowed to the man — the big man with the 
! classic head and the air of being at ease with him- 
I self and the world. 

I He did things to the velvet and ermine wrap that 
he was holding, which seemed to satisfy its owner, 

! then he gripped his father’s arm. “ Dad, who is 
that big man down there — with the red head — 
the one who bowed to you? ” 

“ Dr. McKenzie, Bruce McKenzie, the nerve spe¬ 
cialist —” 

Of course it was something to know that, but one 
i didn’t get very far. 

I “ Let’s go somewhere and eat,” said the General, 
and that was the end of it. Out of the tail of his 
33 



THE TIN SOLDIER 


eye, Derry Drake saw the two figures with the cop¬ 
per-colored heads move down the aisle, to be finally 
merged into the indistinguishable stream of hu¬ 
manity which surged towards the door. 

Jean and her father did not go to supper at the 
big hotel around the corner as was their custom. 

“ I’ve got to get to the hospital before twelve,” 
the Doctor said. “ I am sorry, dear —” 

“ It doesn’t make a bit of difference. I don’t 
want to eat,” she settled herself comfortably be¬ 
side him in the car. “ Oh, it is snowing, Daddy, 
how splendid —” 

He laughed. “ You little bundle of — ecstasy — 
what am I going to do with you? ” 

“Love me. And isn’t the snow — wonderful?” 

“ Yes. But everybody doesn’t see it that way.” 

“ I am glad that I do. I should hate to see noth¬ 
ing in all this miracle, but — slush tomorrow —” 

“Yet a lot of life is just —slush tomorrow—. 
I wish you need never find that out —.” 

When Jean went into the house, and her father 
drove on, she found Hilda waiting up for her. 

“ Father had to go to the hospital.” 

“ Did you have anything to eat? ” 

“ No.” 

“ I thought I might cook some oysters.” 

“ I am really not hungry.” Then feeling that 
her tone was ungracious, she tried to make amends. 
“ It was nice of you to think of it —” 

34 


CINDERELLA 

“ Your father may like them. Fll have them hot 
for him.” 

Jean lingered uncertainly. She didn’t want the 
food, but she hated to leave the field to Hilda. She 
unfastened her cloak, and sat down. “How are 
you going to cook them? ” 

“ Panned — with celery.” 

“ It sounds good — I think I’ll stay down, 
Hilda.” 

“ As you wish.” 

The Doctor, coming in with his coat powdered 
with snow, found his daughter in a big chair in 
front of the library fire. 

“ I thought you’d be in bed.” 

“ Hilda has some oysters for us.” 

“ Pine — I’m starved.” 

She looked at him, meditatively, “ I don’t see how 
you can be.” 

“ Why not? ” 

“Oh, on such a night as this, Daddy? Food 
seems superfluous.” 

He sat down, smiling. “ Don’t ever expect to 
feed any man over forty on star-dust. Hilda knows 
better, don’t you, Hilda? ” 

Hilda was bringing in the tray. There was a 
copper chafing-dish and a percolator. She wore 
her nurse’s outfit of white linen. She looked well 
in it, and she was apt to put it on after dinner, 
when she was in charge of the office. 

25 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


“ You know better than to feed a man on star¬ 
dust, don’t you? ” the Doctor persisted. 

Hilda lifted the coyer of the chafing-dish and 
stirred the contents. “Well, yes,” she smiled at 
him, “you see, I have lived longer than Jean. 
She’ll learn.” 

“ I don’t want to learn,” Jean told her notly. 
“I want to believe that — that—” Words failed 
her. 

“ That men can live on star-dust? ” her father 
asked gently. “ Well, so be it. We won’t quarrel 
with her, will we, Hilda? ” 

The oysters were very good. Jean ate several 
with healthy appetite. Her father, twinkling, 
teased her, “ You see —? ” 

She shrugged, “All the same, I didn’t need 
them.” 

Hilda, putting things back on the tray, remarked: 
“ There was a message from Mrs. Witherspoon. 
Her son is on leave for the week end. She wants 
you for dinner on Saturday night — both of you.” 

Doctor McKenzie tapped a finger on the table 
thoughtfullfy, “ Oh, does she? Do you want to go, 
Jeanie? ” 

“ Yes. Don’t you? ” 

“ I am not sure. I should like to build a fence 
about you, my dear, and never let a man look over. 
Ralph Witherspoon wants to marry her, Hilda, 
what do you think of that? ” 

36 



CINDERELLA 


“ Well, why not? ” Hilda laid her long hands 
flat on the table, leaning on them. 

Jean felt little prickles of irritability. “ Be¬ 
cause I don’t want to get married, Hilda.” 

Hilda gave her a sidelong glance, “ Of course you 
do. But you don’t know it.” 

She went out with her tray. Jean turned, white¬ 
faced, to her father, “ I wish she wouldn’t say such 
things —” 

“ My dear, I am afraid you don’t quite do her 
justice.” 

“ Oh, well, we won’t talk about her. I’ve got to 
go to bed, Daddy.” 

She kissed him wistfully. “ Sometimes I think 
there are two of you, the one that likes me, and the 
one that likes Hilda.” 

With his hands on her shoulders, he gave an easy 
laugh. “ Who knows? But you mustn’t have it 
on your mind. It isn’t good for you.” 

“ I shall always have you on my mind —.” 

“ But not to worry about, baby. I’m not worth 
it —.” 

Hilda came in with the evening paper. “ Have 
you read it, Doctor? ” 

“ No.” He glanced at the headlines and his face 
grew hard. “ More frightfulness,” he said, storm- 
ily. “ If I had my way, it should be an eye for an 
eye, a tooth for a tooth. For every man they have 
tortured, there should be one of their men — tor- 
37 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


tured. For every child mutilated, one of theirs —« 
mutilated. For every woman —.” 

He stopped. Jean had caught hold of his arm. 
“ Don’t, Daddy,” she said thickly, “ it makes me 
afraid of you.” She covered her face with her 
hands. 

He drew her to him and smoothed her hair in 
silence. Over her head he glanced at Hilda. She 
was smiling inscrutably into the fire. 



CHAPTER III 


DRUSILLA 

The thing that Derry Drake had on his mind the 
next morning was a tea-cup. There were other 
things on his mind — things so heavy that he turned 
with relief to the contemplation of cups. 

Stuck all over the great house were cabinets of 
china — his father had collected and his mother 
had prized. Derry, himself, had not cared for any 
of it until this morning, but when Bronson, the old 
man who served him and had served his father for 
years, came in with his breakfast, Derry showed 
him a broken bit which he had brought home with 
him two nights before. “ Have we a cup like this 
anywhere in the house, Bronson? ” 

“ There’s a lot of them, sir, in the blue room, in 
the wall cupboard.” 

“ I thought so, let me have one of them. If Dad 
ever asks for it, send him to me. He broke the 
other, so it’s a fair exchange.” 

He had it carefully wrapped and carried it down' 
town with him. The morning was clear, and the 
sun sparkled on the snow. As he passed through 
39 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Dupont Circle he found that a few children and 
their nurses had brayed the cold. One small boy 
in a red coat ran to Derry. 

“ Where are you going, Cousin Derry? ” 

“ Down town.” 

“ To-day is Margaret-Mary’s birf-day. I am go* 
ing to give her a wabbit — 

“Rabbit, Buster. You’d better say it quick. 
Nurse is on the way.” 

“ Rab-yit. What are you going to give her? ” 

“ Oh, must I give her something? ” 

“ Of course. Mother said you’d forget it. I 
wanted to telephone, and she wouldn’t let me.” 

“ Would a doll do? ” 

“ I shouldn’t like a doll. But she is littler. 
And you mustn’t spend much money. Mother said 
I spent too much for my rab-yit. That I ought to 
save it for Our Men. And you mustn’t eat what von 
yike — we’ve got a card in the window, and there 
wasn’t any bacon for bref-fus.” 

“ Breakfast.” 

“ Yes. An’ we had puffed rice and prunes —” 

Nurse, coming up, was immediately on the job, 
“ You are getting mud on Mr. Derry’s spats, Teddy, 
Stand up like a little gentleman.” 

“ He is always that, Nurse, isn’t he? And I 
should not have on spats at this hour in the morn¬ 
ing.” 

Derry smiled to himself as he left them. He 
40 


DRUSILLA 


knew that Nurse did not approve of him. He had 
a way as it were of aiding and abetting Teddy. 

But as he w T ent on the smile faded. There were 
many soldiers on the street, many uniforms, flags 
of many nations draping doorways where were 
housed the men from across the sea who were work¬ 
ing shoulder to shoulder with America for the win¬ 
ning of the w r ar—. Washington had taken on a 
new aspect. It had a waked-up look, as if its lazy 
days were over, and there were real things to do. 

The big church at the triangle showed a Bed 
Cross banner. Within women were making ban¬ 
dages, knitting sweaters and socks, sewing up the 
long seams of shirts and pajamas. A few years ago 
they had worshipped a Christ among the lilies. 
They saw him now on the battlefield, crucified 
again in the cause of humanity. 

It seemed to Derry that even the civilians walked 
with something of a martial stride. Men, who for 
years had felt their strength sapped by the monot¬ 
ony of Government service, were revived by the 
winds of patriotism which swept from the four cor¬ 
ners of the earth. Women w r ho had lost youth and 
looks in the treadmill of Departmental life held up 
their heads as if their eyes beheld a new vision. 

Street cars were crowded, things were at sixes 
and sevens; red tape was loose where it should have 
been tight and tight where it should have been 
loose. Little men with the rank of officer sat in 
41 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


swivel chairs and tried to direct big things; big 
men, without rank, were tied to the trivial. Many, 
many things were wrong, and many, many things 
were right, as it is always when war comes upon a 
people unprepared. 

And in the midst of all this clash and crash and 
movement and achievement, Derry was walking to 
a toy shop to carry a tea cup! 

He found Miss Emily alone in the big front room. 

She did not at once recognize him. 

“ You remember I was in here the other night — 
and you wouldn’t sell — tin soldiers — 

She flushed a little. “ Oh, with your father? ” 

“ Yes. He’s a dear old chap —.” 

It was the best apology he could make, and she 
loved him for it. 

He brought out the cup and set it on the counter. 
“ It is like yours? ” 

“ Yes.” But she did not want to take it. 

“ Please. I brought it on purpose. We have a 
dozen.” 

“Of these?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But it will break your set.” 

“We have oodles of sets. Dad collects — you 
know — There are dishes enough in the house to 
start a crockery shop.” 

She glanced at him curiously. It was hard to 
reconcile this slim young man of fashion with the 
42 


DRUSILLA 


shabby boy of the other night. But there were the 
lad’s eyes, smiling into hers! 

“ I should like, too, if you don’t mind, to find a 
toy for a very little girl. It is her birthday, and I 
had forgotten.” 

“ It is dreadful to forget,” Miss Emily told him, 
“ children care so much.” 

“ I have never forgotten before, but I had so much 
on my mind.” 

She brought forth the Lovely Dreams — “ They 
have been a great success.” 

He chose at once a rose-colored cat and a yellow 
owl. The cat was carved impressionistically in a 
series of circles. She was altogether celestial and 
comfortable. The owl might have been lighted by 
the moon. 

“ But why? ” Derry asked, “ a rose-colored cat? ” 

“ Isn’t a white cat pink and puffy in the firelight? 
And a child sees her pink and puffy. If we don’t 
it is because we are blind.” 

u But why the green ducks and the amethyst 
cows?” 

“ The cows are coming tinkling home in the twi¬ 
light— the green ducks swim under the willows. 
And they are longer and broader because of the 
lights and shadows. That’s the way you saw them 
When you were six.” 

“ By Jove,” he said, staring, “ I believe I did.” 

44 So there’s nothing queer about them to the 
43 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

children — you ought to see them listen when Jean 
tells them.” 

Jean —! 

“ She — she tells the children? ” 

“ Yes. Charming stories. I am haying them put 
in a little pamphlet to go with the toys.” 

“She’s Dr. McKenzie’s daughter, isn’t she? I 
saw her last night at the play.” 

“Yes. Such a dear child. She is usually here 
in the afternoon.” 

He had hoped until then that J ean might be hid¬ 
den in that rear room, locked up with the dolls in 
a drawer, tucked away in a box — he had a blank 
feeling of the futility of his tea-cup — 

Then, suddenly, the gods being in a gay mood, 
Jean arrived! 

At once his errand justified itself. She wore a 
gray squirrel jacket and a hat to match — and her 
crinkled copper-colored hair came out from under 
the hat and oyer her ears. She carried a little muff. 
Her eyes — the color of her cheeks! A man might 
walk to the world’s end for less than this —! 

He was buying, he told her, pink pussy cats and 
yellow owls. Had she liked the play last night? 
He was glad that she adored Maude Adams. He 
adored — Maude Adams. Hid she remember 
“ Peter Pan ”? Yes, he had gone to everything — 
glorified matinees — glorified everything! Wasn’t 
it remarkable that his father knew her father? 

44 


DRUSILLA 

And she was Jean McKenzie, and he was Derry 
Drake! 

At last there was no excuse for him to linger. “ I 
shall come back for more — Lovely Dreams,” he 
told Miss Emily, and got away. 

Alone in the shop the two women looked at each 
other. Then Emily said, “Jean, darling, how 
dreadful it must be for him.” 

“ Dreadful —.” 

“ With such a father — 

“ Oh, you mean — the other night.” 

“ Yes. He isn’t happy, Jean.” 

“ How do you know? ” 

“ He has lonesome eyes.” 

“ Oh, Emily.” 

“ Well, he has, and it must be dreadful.” 

How dreadful it was neither of them could really 
know. Derry, having lunched with a rather im¬ 
portant committee, went to Drusilla Gray’s in the 
afternoon for a cup of tea. He was called almost 
at once to the telephone. Bronson was at the other 
end. “ I am sorry, Mr. Derry, but I thought you 
ought to know —” 

Derry, with the sick feeling which always came 
over him with the knowledge of what was ahead, 
said steadily, “ That’s all right, Bronson — which 
way did he go? ” 

“ He took the Cabin John car, sir. I tried to get 
on, but he saw me, and sent me back, and I didn’t 
45 


THE TIE SOLDIER 


like to make a scene. Shall I follow m a taxi? ” 

“ Yes; I’ll get away as soon as I can and call you 
up out there.” 

He went back to Drusilla. * Sing for me/ ; ' he said. 

Drusilla Gray lived with her Aunt Marion in an 
apartment which overlooked Rock Creek. Marion 
Gray occupied herself with the writing of books. 
Drusilla had varying occupations. Just now she 
was interested in interior decoration and in the 
war. 

She was also interested in trying to flirt with 
Derry Drake. “ He won’t play the game,” she told 
her aunt, “ and that’s why I like it — the game, I 
mean.” 

“ You like him because he hasn’t surrendered.” 

“ No. He is a rather perfect thing of his kind, 
like a bit of jewelled Sevres or Sang de boeuf. And 
he doesn’t know it. And that’s another thing in 
his favor — his modesty. He makes me think of a 
little Austrian prince I once met at Palm Beach; 
who wore a white satin shirt with a high collar of 
gold embroidery, and white kid boots, and wonder¬ 
ful rings — and his nails long like a Chinaman’s. 
At first we laughed at him — called him effemi¬ 
nate—. But after we knew him we didn’t laugh. 
There was the blood in him of kings and rulers — 
and presently he had us on our knees. And Derry’s 
like that. When you first meet him you look over 
his head; then you find yourself looking up —” 

46 


DRUSILLA 


Marion smiled. “ You’ve got it bad, Drusilla.” 

“ If you think I am in love with him, I’m not. 
I’d like to be, but it wouldn’t be of any use. He’s a 
Galahad — a pocket-edition Galahad. If he ever 
falls in love, there’ll be more of romance in it than 
I can give him.” 

It was to this Drusilla that Derry had come. He 
liked her immensely. And they had in common a 
great love of music. 

She had tea for him, and some rather strange lit¬ 
tle spiced cakes on a red lacquer tray. There was 
much dark blue and vivid red in the room, with 
white woodwork. Drusilla herself was in unre¬ 
lieved red. The effect was startling but stimulat¬ 
ing. 

“ I am not sure that I like it,” she said, “ the red 
and w T hite and blue, but I wanted to see whether 
I could do it. And Aunt Marion doesn’t care. 
The red things can all be taken out, and the rest 
toned down. But I have a feeling that a man 
couldn’t sit in this room and be a slacker.” 

“ No, he couldn’t,” Derry agreed. “ You’d better 
hang out a recruiting sign, Drusilla.” 

“ I should if they would let me. The best I can 
do is ask them to tea and sing for them.” 

It was right here that Bronson’s message had 
broken in, and Derry, coming back from the tele¬ 
phone, had said, “ Sing for me.” 

Drusilla lighted two red candles on the piano in 
47 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


the alcove. She began with a medley of patriotic 
songs. With her voice never soaring above a re¬ 
pressed note, she managed to give the effect of cul¬ 
minating emotion, so that when she reached a cli¬ 
max in the Marseillaise, Derry rose, thrilled, to his 
feet. 

She whirled around and faced him. “ They all do 
that,” she said, with a glowing air of triumph. 
“ It’s when I get them.” 

“ Why did you give the Marseillaise last? ” 

“It has the tramp in it of marching men — I love 
it.” 

“ But why not the 6 Star Spangled Banner ’? ” 

“ That’s for sacred moments. I hate to make it 
common — but I’ll sing it — now —” 

Still standing, he listened. Drusilla held her 
voice to that low note, but there was the crash of 
battle in the music that she made, the hush of 
dawn, the cry of victory — 

“ Dear girl, you are a genius.” 

“No, I am not. But I can feel things — and I 
can make others feel —” 

She rose and went to the window. “ There’s a 
new moon,” she said, “ come and see —” 

The curtains were not drawn, and the apartment 
was high up, so that they looked out beyond the 
hills to a sky in which the daylight blue had faded 
to a faint green, and saw the little moon and one 
star. 


48 


DRUSILLA 


“Derry,” Brasilia said, softly. “Derry, why 
aren’t you fighting? ” 

It was the question he had dreaded. He had 
seen it often in her eyes, but never before had she 
voiced it. 

“ I can’t tell you, Drusilla, but there’s a reason 
— a good one. God knows I would go if I could.” 

The passion in his voice convinced her. 

“ Don’t you know I’d be in it if I had my way. 
But I’ve got to stay on the shelf like the tin soldier 
in the fairy tale. Do you remember, Drusilla? 
And people keep asking me — why? ” 

“ I shouldn’t have asked it, Derry? ” 

“ You couldn’t know. And you had a right to 
ask — everybody has a right — and I can’t answer.” 

She laid her hand on his shoulder. “ When I 
was a little girl,” she said, softly, “ I used to cry —* 
because I was so sorry for the — tin soldier —” 

“ Are you sorry for me, Drusilla? ” 

“ Dreffly sorry.” 

They stood in silence among the shadows, with 
only the red candles burning. Then Derry said ? 
heartily, “You are the best friend that a fellow 
ever had, Brasilia.” 

And that was as far as he would play the game! 


CHAPTER IV 


THE QUESTION 

Whatever else might be said of General Drake, 
Ms Bacchanalian adventures were those of a gen¬ 
tleman. Not for him were the sinister streets and 
the sordid taverns of the town. When his wild 
moods came upon him, he struck out straight for 
open country. Up hill and down dale he trudged, 
a knight of the road, finding shelter and refresh¬ 
ment at wayside inns, or perchance at some friendly 
farm. 

The danger lay in the lawless folk whom he 
might meet on the way. Unshaven and unshorn he 
met them, travelling endlessly along the railroad 
tracks, by highways, through woodland paths. 
They slept by day and journeyed by night. By re¬ 
versing this program, the General as a rule avoided 
them. But not always, and when the little lad 
Derry had followed his strange quests, he had come 
now and then upon his father, telling stories to an 
unsavory circle, lord for the moment of them all. 

“Come, Dad/’ Derry would say, and when the 
men had growled a threat, he had flung defiance at 
them. “My mother’s motor is up the road with 
50 


THE QUESTION 

two men in it. If I don’t get back in five minutes 
they will follow me.” 

The General had always been tractable in the 
hands of his son. He adored him. It was only of 
late that he had found anything to criticise. 

Derry, driving along the old Conduit road in the 
crisp darkness, wondered how long that restless 
spirit would endure in that ageing body. He shud¬ 
dered as he thought of the two men who were his 
father — one a polished gentleman ruling his world 
by the power of his keen mind and of his money, 
the other a self-made vagabond — pursuing an aim¬ 
less course. 

The stars were sharp in a sable sky, the river was 
a thin line of silver, the hills were blotted out. 

Bronson was waiting by the big bridge. “ He is 
singing down there,” he said, “ on the bank. Can 
you hear him? ” 

Leaning over the parapet, Derry listened. The 
quavering voice came up to him, 

“ He has sounded forth the — trumpet — that shall never call 
— retreat — 

Be is sifting out the — hearts of men — before his judgment —« 
seat — 

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! Be jubilant, my feet —•*" 

Poor old soldier, beating time to the triumphant 
tune, stumbling over the words — held pathetically 
to the memory of those days when he had marched 
51 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


in the glory of his youth, strength and spirit given 
to a mighty cause! 

The pity of it wrung Derry’s heart. “ Couldn’t 
you do anything with him, Bronson? ” 

“ No, sir, I tried, but he sent me home. Told me 
I was discharged.’’ 

They might have laughed over that, but it was 
not the moment for laughter. In the last twenty 
years, the General had discharged Bronson more 
than once, always without the least idea of being 
taken at his word. To have lost this faithful serv¬ 
ant would have broken his heart. 

“ I see. It won’t do for you to show yourself 
just now. You’d better go home, and have his hot 
bath ready.” 

“Are you sure you can bring him, Mr. Derry? ” 

“ Sure, Bronson, thank you.” 

Bronson walked a few steps and came back. 
“ It is freezing cold, sir, you’d better take the rug 
from the car.” 

Laden thus, Derry made his way down. His 
flashlight revealed the General, a humped-up figure 
on the bank of a little frozen stream. 

“ Go home, Derry,” he said, as he recognized his 
son. “ I want to sit by myself.” 

His tone was truculent. 

Derry attempted lightness. “ You’ll be a lump 
of ice in the morning, Dad. We’d have to chip you 
off in chunks.” 


52 


TEE QUESTION 

“You go home with Bronson, son. He is up 
there. Go home —” 

He had once commanded a brigade. There were 
moments when he was hard pushed that he remem¬ 
bered it. 

“ Go home, Derry.” 

“ Not till you come with me.” 

“ Pm not coming.” 

Derry spread his rug on the icy ground. “ Sit on 
this and wrap up your legs — you’ll freeze out 
here.” 

His father did not move. “ I am puf-feckly com- 
fa’ble.” 

The General rarely got his syllables tangled. 
Things at times happened to his legs, but he usually 
controlled his tongue. 

“ I am puf-feckly comfa’ble — go home, Derry.” 

“ I can’t leave you, Dad.” 

“ I want to be left.” 

He had never been quite like this. There had 
been moods of rebellion, but usually he had yielded 
himself to his son’s guidance. 

“ Dad, be reasonable.” 

“ I’d rather sit here and freeze —than go home 
with a — coward.” 

It was out at last. It struck Derry like a whip¬ 
lash. He sprang to his feet. “You don’t mean 
that, Dad. You can’t mean it.” 

“ I do mean it.” 


53 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ I am not a coward, and you know it.” 

“ Then why don’t you go and fight? ” 

Silence! The only sound the chuckle of living 
waters beneath the ice of the little stream. 

“ Why don’t you go and fight like other men? ” 

The emphasis was insulting. Derry had only 
one idea — to escape from that taunting voice. 
“ You’ll be sorry for this, Dad,” he flung out at 
white heat, and scrambled up the bank. 

When he reached the bridge, he paused. He 
couldn’t leave that old man down there to die of 
the cold — the wind was rising and rattled in the 
bare trees. 

But Derry’s blood was boiling. He sat down on 
the parapet, thick blackness all about him. What¬ 
ever had been his father’s shortcomings, they had 
always clung together — and now they were sep¬ 
arated by words which had cut like a knife. It 
was useless to tell himself that his father was not 
responsible. Out of the heart the mouth had 
spoken. 

And there were other people who felt as his 
father did — there had been Drusilla’s questions, 
the questions of others — there had been, too, 
averted faces. He saw the little figure in the cloak 
of heavenly blue as she had been the other night, 
—in her gray furs as she had been this morning—; 
would her face, too, be turned from him? 

Words formed themselves in his mind. H© 
54 


TEE QUESTION 

yearned to toss back at bis father the taunt that 
was on his lips. To fling it over the parapet, to 
shout it to the world—! 

He had never before felt the care of his father a 
sacrifice. There had been humiliating moments, 
hard moments, but always he had been sustained by 
a sense of the rightness of the thing that he was 
doing and of its necessity. 

Then, out of the darkness, came a shivering old 
voice, “ Derry, are you there? ” 

“ Yes, Dad.” 

“ Come down — and help me —” 

The General, alone in the darkness, had suffered 
a reaction. He felt chilled and depressed. He 
wanted warmth and light. 

Mounting steadily with his son’s arm to sustain 
him, he argued garrulously for a sojourn at the 
nearest hostelry, or for a stop at Chevy Chase. 
He would, he promised, go to bed at the Club, and 
thus be rid of Bronson. Bronson didn’t know his 
place, he would have to be taught — 

Arriving at the top, he was led to Derry’s car. 
He insisted on an understanding. If he got in, 
they were to stop at the Club 

“ No,” Derry said, “ we won’t stop. We are go¬ 
ing home.” 

Derry had never commanded a brigade. But he 
had in him the blood of one who had. He pos¬ 
sessed also strength and determination backed at 
55 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


the moment by righteous indignation. He lifted 
his father bodily, put him in the car, took his seat 
beside him, shut the door, and drove off. He felt 
remarkably cheered as they whirled along at top 
speed. 

The General, yielding gracefully to the inevi¬ 
table, rolled himself up in the rugs, dropped his 
head against the padded cushions and, soothed by 
the warmth, fell asleep. 

He waked to find himself being guided up his 
own stairway by Bronson and the butler. 

“Put him into a hot bath, Bronson,” Derry di¬ 
rected from the threshold of his father’s room, and 
the General, quite surprisingly, made no protest. 
He had his bath, hot drinks to follow, and hot water 
bags in his bed. When he drifted off finally, into 
uneasy dreams, he was watched over by Bronson as 
if he had been a baby. 

Derry, looking at his watch, was amazed to find 
that the evening was yet early. He had lived emo¬ 
tionally through a much longer period than that 
marked by the clocks. 

He had no engagements. He had found himself 
of late shrinking a little from his kind. The clubs 
and the hotels were crowded with officers. Private 
houses, hung with service flags, paid homage to 
men in uniform. He was aware that he was, per¬ 
haps, unduly sensitive, but it was not pleasant to 
56 


THE QUESTION 

meet the inquiring glance, the guarded question. 
He was welcomed outwardly as of old. But, then, 
he had a great deal of money. People did not like 
to offend his father’s son. But if he had not been 
his father’s son? What then? 

He dined alone and in state in the great dining 
room. The portraits of his ancestors looked down 
on him. There was his mother’s grandfather, who 
had the same fair hair and strongly marked brows. 
He had been an officer in the English army, and 
wore the picturesque uniform of the period. There 
were other men in uniform — ancestors —. 

But of what earthly use was an ancestor in uni¬ 
form to the present situation? It would have been 
better to have inherited Quaker blood. Derry 
smiled whimsically as he thought how different he 
might have felt if there had been benignant men in 
gray with broad-brimmed hats, staring down. 

But to grant a man an inheritance of fighting 
blood, and then deny him the opportunity to exer¬ 
cise his birthright, was a sort of grim joke which 
he could not appreciate. 

For dessert a great dish of fruit was set before 
him. He chose a peach! 

Peaches in November! The men in the trenches 
had no peaches, no squabs, no mushrooms, no ava- 
cados — for them bully beef and soup cubes, a 
handful of dates, or by good luck a bit of chocolate. 

57 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


He left the peach untasted — he had a feeling that 
he might thus, vicariously, atone for the hardships 
of those others who fought. 

After dinner he walked downtown. Passing Dr. 
McKenzie’s house he was constrained to loiter. 
There were lights upstairs and down. Was Jean 
McKenzie’s room behind the two golden windows 
above the balcony? Was she there, or in the room 
below, where shaded lamps shone softly among the 
shadows? 

He yearned to go in — to speak with her — to 
learn her thoughts — to read her heart and mind. 
As yet he knew only the message of her beauty. 
He fancied her as having exquisite sensibility, 
sweetness, gentleness, perceptions as vivid as her 
youth and bloom. 

The front door opened, and Jean and her father 
came out. Derry’s heart leaped as he heard her 
laugh. Then her clear voice, “ Isn’t it a wonderful 
night to walk, Daddy? ” and her father’s response, 
“ Oh, you with your ecstasies! ” 

They went briskly down the other side of the 
street. Derry found himself following, found him¬ 
self straining his ear for that light laugh, found 
himself wishing that it were he who walked beside 
her, that her hand was tucked into his arm as it was 
tucked into her father’s. 

Their destination was a brilliantly illumined pal 
ace on F Street, once a choice little playhouse, now 
58 


THE QUESTION 

given over to screen productions. The house was 
packed, and Jean and her father, following the 
flashlight of the usher, found harbor finally in a 
box to the left of the stage. Derry settled himself 
behind them. He was an eavesdropper and he 
knew it, but he was loath to get out of the range of 
that lovely laughter. 

Yet observing the closeness of their companion¬ 
ship he felt himself lonely — they seemed so satis¬ 
fied to be together — so sufficient without any 
other. Once Dr. McKenzie got up and went out. 
When he came back he brought a box of candy. 
Derry heard Jean’s “Oh, you darling—” and 
thrilled with a touch of jealousy. 

He wondered a little that he should care — his 
experiences with women had heretofore formed gay 
incidents in his life rather than serious epochs. He 
had carried in his heart a vision, and the girl in the 
Toy Shop had seemed to make that vision suddenly 
real. 

The play which was thrown on the screen had to 
do with France; with Joan of Arc and the lover who 
failed her, with the reincarnation of the lover and 
his opportunity, after long years, to redeem himself 
from the blot of cowardice. 

In the stillness, Derry heard the quick-drawn 
breath of the girl in front of him. “Daddy, 1 
should hate a man like that.” 

“ But, my dear —” 


59 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


* I should hate him, Daddy.” 

The play was oyer. 

The lights went up, and Jean stood revealed. 
Me was pinning on her hat. She saw Derry and 
smiled at him. “ Daddy,” she said, “it is Mr. 
Drake — you know him.” 

Dr. McKenzie held out his hand. “ How do you 
do? So you young people have met, eh? ” 

“ In Emily’s shop, Daddy. He — he came to buy 
my Lovely Dreams.” 

The two men laughed. “As if any man could 
buy your dreams, Jeanie,” her father said, “ it 
would take the wealth of the world.” 

“ Or no wealth at all,” said Derry quickly. 

They walked out together. As they passed the 
portal of the gilded door, Derry felt that the mo¬ 
ment of parting had come. 

“Oh, look here, Doctor,” he said, desperately, 
“ won’t you and your daughter take pity on me — 
and join me at supper? There’s dancing at the 
Willard and all that — Miss McKenzie might enjoy 
it, and it would be a life-saver for me.” 

Light leaped into Jean’s eyes. “ Oh, Daddy —” 
“ Would you like it, dear? ” 

“ You know I should. So would you. And you 
haven’t any stupid patients, have you ? ” 

“ My patients are always stupid, Drake, when 
they take me away from her. Otherwise she is 
60 


THE QUESTION 

sorry for them.” He looked at his watch. “ Whea 
I get to the hotel Ill telephone to Hilda, and shell 
know where to find us.” 

It was the Doctor who talked as they went along 
— the two young people were quite ecstatically 
silent. Jean w T as between her father and Derry. 
As he kept step with her, it seemed to him that no 
woman had ever walked so lightly; she laughed a 
little now and then. There was no need for words. 

While her father telephoned, they sat together 
for a moment in the corridor. She unfastened her 
coat, and he saw her w 7 hite dress and pearls. “ Am 
I fine enough for an evening like this? ” she asked 
him; “ you see it is just the dress I wear at home.” 

“ It seems to me quite a superlative frock — and 
I am glad that your hat is lined with blue.” 

“ Why? ” 

“ Your cloak last night was heavenly, and now 
this — it matches your eyes —” 

“ Oh.” She sat very still. 

“ Shouldn’t I have said that? I didn’t think —” 

“ I am glad you didn’t think—” 

“ Oh, are you? ” 

“ Yes. I hate people who weigh their words —” 
The color came up finely into her cheeks. 

When Dr. McKenzie returned, Derry found a 
table, and gave his order. 

Jean refused to consider anything but an ice. 
“ She doesn’t eat at such moments,” Doctor Me- 
61 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


Kenzie told his young host. “ She lives on star- 
dust, and she wants me to live on star-dust. It is 
our only quarrel. She’ll think me sordid because 
I am going to have broiled lobster.” 

Derry laughed, yet felt that it was after all a 
serious matter. His appetite, too, was gone. He 
too wanted only an ice! The Doctor’s order was, 
however, sufficiently substantial to establish a bal¬ 
ance. 

“May I dance with her?” Derry asked, as the 
music brought the couples to their feet. 

“ I don’t usually let her. Not in a place like this. 
But her eyes are begging — and I spoil her, Drake.” 

Curious glances followed the progress of the 
young millionaire and his pretty partner. But 
Derry saw nothing but Jean. She was like thistle¬ 
down in his arms, she was saying tremendously in¬ 
teresting things to him, in her lovely voice. 

“ I cried all through the scene where Cinderella 
sits on the door-step. Yet it really wasn’t so very 
sad — was it? ” 

“I think it was sad. She was such a little 
starved thing — starved for love.” 

“ Yes. It must be dreadful to be starved for 
love.” 

He glanced down at her. “ You have never felt 
it?” 

“No, except after my mother died — I wanted 
her—” 


62 


THE QUESTION 

a My mother is dead, too.” 

The Doctor sat alone at the head of the table and 
ate his lobster; he ate war bread and a green salad, 
and drank a pot of black coffee, and was at peace 
with the world. Star-dust was all very well for 
those young things out there. He laughed as they 
came back to him. “ Each to his own joys — the 
lobster was very good, Drake.” 

They hardly heard him. Jean had a rosy parfait 
with a strawberry on top. Derry had another. 

They talked of the screen play, and the man who 
had failed. If he had really loved her he would 
not have failed, Jean said. 

“ I think he loved her,” was Derry’s opinion; 
“ the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak.” 

Jean shrugged. “ Well, Fate was kind to him — 
to give him another chance. Oh, Daddy, tell him 
the story the little French woman told at the meet¬ 
ing of the Medical Association.” 

“ You should have heard her tell it — but Fll do 
my best. Her eloquence brought us to our feet. 
It was when she was in Paris — just after the 
American forces arrived. She stopped at the curb 
one morning to buy violets of an ancient dame. 
She found the old flower vendor inattentive and, 
looking for the cause, she saw across the street a 
young American trooper loitering at a corner. 
Suddenly the old woman snatched up a bunch of 
lilies, ran across the street, thrust them into the 
63 


TEE TIE SOLDIER 


hands of the astonished soldier. ‘ Take them, 
American/ she said. i Take the lilies of France 
and plant them in Berlin.’ ” 

u Isn’t that wonderful?” Jean breathed. 

“ Everything is wonderful to her/’ the Doctor 
told Derry, “ she lives on the heights.” 

“ But the lilies of France, Daddy —! Can’t you 
see our men and the lilies of France? ” 

Derry saw them, indeed,— a glorious com¬ 
pany—! 

“ Oh, if I were a man,” Jean said, and stopped. 
She stole a timid glance at him. The question that 
he had dreaded was in her eyes. 

They fell into silence. Jean finished her par- 
fait. Derry’s was untouched. 

Then the music brought them again to their feet, 
and they danced. The Doctor smoked alone. Back 
of him somebody murmured, “ It is Derry Drake.” 

“ Confounded slacker,” said a masculine voice. 
Then came a warning “ Hush,” as Derry and Jean 
returned. 

“ It is snowing/’ Derry told the Doctor. “ I have 
ordered my car.” 

Late that night when the Doctor rode forth again 
alone in his own car on an errand of mercy, he 
thought of the thing which he had heard. Then 
came the inevitable question: why wasn’t Derry 
Drake fighting? 


64 


CHAPTER V 


THE SLACKER 

It was at the Witherspoon dinner that Jean Mo 
Benzie first heard the things that were being said 
about Derry. 

“ I can’t understand,” someone had remarked, 
“ why Derry Drake is staying out of it.” 

“ I fancy he’ll be getting in,” Ralph Witherspoon 
had said. “ Derry’s no slacker.” 

Ralph could afford to be generous. He was in 
the Naval Flying Corps. He looked extremely well 
in his Ensign’s uniform, and he knew it; he was 
hoping, in the spring, for active service on the 
other side. 

“ I don’t see why Derry should fight. I don’t see 
why any man should. I never did believe in getting 
into other people’s fusses.” 

It was Alma Drew who said that. Nobody took 
Alma very seriously. She was too pretty with her 
shining hair and her sea-green eyes, and her way of 
claiming admiration. 

Jean had recognized her when she first came in 
as the girl she had seen descending from her motor 
car with Derry Drake on the night of the Secre- 
65 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


tary’s dinner. Alma again wore the diamond- 
encrusted comb. She was in sea-green, which 
matched her eyes. 

“ If I were a man,” Alma pursued, “ I should 
run away.” 

There was a rustle of uneasiness about the table. 
In the morning papers had been news of Italy — 
disturbing news; news from Russia — Kerensky 
had fled to Moscow — there had been pictures of 
our men in gas masks! It wasn’t a thing to joke 
about. Even Alma might go too far. 

Ralph relieved the situation. “ Oh, no, you 
wouldn’t run away,” he said; “you don’t do your¬ 
self justice, Alma. Before you know it you will be 
driving a car over there, and picking me up when I 
fall from the skies.” 

“Well, that would be — compensation—.” 
Alma’s lashes flashed up and fluttered down. 

But she turned her batteries on Ralph in vain. 
Jean McKenzie was on the other side of him. It 
would never be quite clear to him why he loved 
Jean. She was neither very beautiful nor very 
brilliant. But there was a dearness about her. 
He hardly dared think of it. It had gone very 
deep with him. 

He turned to her. Her eyes were blazing. 
“ Oh,” she said, under her breath, “ how can she say 
things like that? If I knew a man who would run 
away, I’d never speak to him.” 

66 


TEE SLACKER 


“ Of course. That’s why I fell in love with you 
«—■ because you had red blood in your veins.” 

It was the literal truth. The first time that 
Ralph had seen Jean McKenzie, he had been riding 
in Rock Creek Park. She, too, was on horseback. 
It was in April. War had just been declared, and 
there was great excitement. Jean, taking the 
bridle path over the hills, had come upon a band of 
workers. A long-haired and seditious orator was 
talking to them. Jean had stopped her horse to 
listen, and before she knew it she was answering the 
arguments of the speaker. Rising a little in her 
stirrups, her riding-crop uplifted to emphasize her 
burning words, her cheeks on fire, her eyes shining, 
her hair blowing under her three-cornered hat, she 
had clearly and crisply challenged the patriotism of 
the speaker, and she had presented to Ralph’s ap¬ 
preciative eyes a picture which he was never to 
forget. 

She had not been in the least embarrassed bv his 
arrival, and his uniform had made him seem at 
once her ally. “ I am sure this gentleman will be 
glad to talk to you,” she had said to her little audi¬ 
ence. “ I’ll leave the field to him,” and with a nod 
and a smile she had ridden off, the applause of the 
men following her. 

Ralph, having put the long-haired one to rout r 
had asked the men if they knew the young lady 
who had talked to them. They had, it seemed, seen 
67 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


her riding with Dr. McKenzie. They thought she 
was his daughter. It had been easy enough after 
that to find Jean on his mother's visiting list. 
Mrs. Witherspoon and Mrs. McKenzie had ex¬ 
changed calls during the life-time of the latter, but 
they had lived in different circles. Mrs. Wither¬ 
spoon had aspired to smartness and to the friend¬ 
ship of the new people who brought an air of sophis¬ 
tication to the staid and sedate old capital. Mrs. 
McKenzie had held to old associations and to old 
ideals. 

Mrs. Witherspoon was a widow and charming. 
Dr. McKenzie was a widower and an addition to 
any dinner table. In a few weeks the old acquaint¬ 
ance had been renewed. Ralph had wooed Jean 
ardently during the short furloughs which had been 
granted him, and from long distance had writ¬ 
ten a bit cocksurely. He had sent flowers, candy, 
books and then, quite daringly, a silver trench 
ring. 

Jean had sent the ring back. “ It was dear of 
you to give it to me, but I can’t keep it.” 

“ Why not? ” he had asked when he next saw her. 

“ Because —” 

“ Because is no reason.” 

She had blushed, but stood firm. She was very 
shy — totally unawakened — a little dreaming girl 
— with all of real life ahead of her — with her in¬ 
nocence a white flower, her patriotism a red one. 

68 


THE SLACKER 

If only he might wear that white and red above his 
heart. 

As a matter of fact, Jean resented, sub-eon- 
:iciously, his air of possession, the certainty with 
which he seemed to see the end of his wooing. 

“ You can’t escape me,” he had told her. 

“ As if I were a rabbit,” she had complained aft¬ 
erwards to her father. “ When I marry a man I 
don’t want to be caught — I want to run to him, 
with my arms wide open.” 

“ Don’t,” her father advised; “ not many men 
would be able to stand it. Let them worship you, 
Jeanie, don’t worship.” 

Jean stuck her nose in the air. “ Falling in love 
doesn’t come the way you want it* You have to 
i take it as the good Lord sends it.” 
j “ Who told you that? ” 

“ Emily —” 

“ What does Emily know of love? ” 

He had laughed and patted her hand. He was 
j cynical generally about romance. He felt that his 
own perfect love affair with his wife had been the 
] exception. He looked upon Emily as a sentimental 
spinster who knew practically nothing of men and 
women. 

He did not realize that Emily knew a great deal 
about dolls that laughed and cried when you pulled 
a string. And that the world in Emily’s Toy Shop 
was not so very different from his own. 

69 



THE TIN SOLDIER 


Alma, having turned a cold shoulder to Balph, 
was still proclaiming her opinion of Derry Drake to 
the rest of the table. “ He is rich and young and 
he doesn’t want to die —” 

“ There are plenty of rich young men dying, 
Alma,” said Mrs. Witherspoon, “ and it is probably 
as easy for them as for the poor ones —” 

“ The poor ones won’t mind being muddy and 
dirty in the trenches,” said Alma, “ but I can’t 
fancy Derry Drake without two baths a day —” 

“ I can’t quite fancy him a slacker.” There was 
a hint of satisfaction in Mrs. Witherspoon’s voice. 
Her son and Derry Drake had gone to school to¬ 
gether and to college. Derry had outdistanced 
Ralph in every way; but now it was Ralph who 
was leaving Derry far behind. 

Jean wished that they would stop talking. She 
felt as she might had she seen a soldier stripped of 
sword and stripes and shamed in the eyes of his 
fellows. 

“ Wasn’t he in the draft? ” she asked Ralph. 
“Too old. He doesn’t look it, does he? It’s a 
bit hard for the rest of us fellows to understand 
why he keeps out —” 

“ Doesn’t he ever try to — explain? ” 

Ralph shook his head. “ Not a word. And he’s 
beginning to stay away from things. You see, he 
knows that people are asking questions, and you 
hear what they are calling him ? ” 

70 


THE SLACKER 


u Yes,” said Jean, “ a coward.” 

“ Well, not exactly that —” 

“ There isn’t much difference, is there?” 

And now Alma’s cool voice summed up the situ¬ 
ation. “ A man with as much money as that 
doesn’t have to be brave. What does he care about 
public opinion? After the war everybody will for¬ 
give and forget.” 

Coolly she challenged them to contradict her. 
“ You all know it. How many of you would dare 
cut the fellow who will inherit his father’s mil¬ 
lions?” 

Mrs. Witherspoon tried to laugh it off; but it was 
true, and Alma was right. They might talk about 
Derry Drake behind his back, but they’d never omit 
sending a card to him. 

Jean ate her duckling in flaming silence, ate her 
salad, ate her ice, drank her coffee, and was glad 
when the meal ended. 

The war from the beginning had been for her a 
sacred cause. She had yearned to be a man that 
she might stand in the forefront of battle. She 
had envied the women of Russia who had formed 
a Battalion of Death. Her father had laughed 
at her. “ You’d be like a white kitten in a dog 
fight.” 

It seemed intolerable that tongues should be busy 
with this talk of young Drake’s cowardice. He had 
seemed something so much more than that. And he 
71 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


was a man — with a man’s right to leadership. 
What was the matter with him? 

The night before she had slept little — Derry’s 
voice — Derry’s eyes! She had gone over every 
word that he had said. She had risen early in the 
morning to write in her memory book, and she had 
drawn a most entrancing border about the page, 
with melting strawberry ice, lilies of France, Cin¬ 
derella slippers, and red-ink lobsters, rather night- 
marishly intermingled! 

He had seemed so fine — so — she fell back on 
her much overworked word wonderful — her heart 
had run to meet him, and now — it would have to 
run back again. How silly she had been not to see. 

After dinner they danced in the Long Room, 
which was rather famous from a decorative point 
of view. It was medieval in effect, with a balcony 
and tapestries, and some precious bits of armor. 
There was a lion-skin flung over the great chair 
where Mrs. Witherspoon was enthroned. 

Between dances, Jean and Ralph sat on the bal¬ 
cony steps, and talked of many things which 
brought the red to Jean’s cheeks, and a troubled 
light into her eyes. 

And it was from the balcony steps that, as the 
evening waned, she saw Derry Drake standing in 
the great arched doorway. 

There was a black velvet curtain behind him 
72 


THE SLACKER 

which accentuated his fairness. He did not look 
nineteen. Jean had a fleeting vision of a certain 
steel engraving of the a Princes in the Tower ” 
which had hung in her grandmother’s house. 
Derry was not in the least like those lovely impris¬ 
oned boys, yet she had an overwhelming sense of 
his kinship to them. 

As young Drake’s eyes swept the room, he was 
aware of Jean on the balcony steps. She was in 
white and silver, with a touch of that heavenly blue 
which seemed to belong to her. Her crinkled hair 
was combed quaintly over her ears and back from 
her forehead. He smiled at her, but she appar¬ 
ently did not see him. 

He made his way to Mrs. Witherspoon. “ I was 
so sorry to get here late. But my other engage¬ 
ments kept me. If I could have dined at two 
places, you should have had at least a half of me.” 

“ We wanted the whole. You know Dr. McKen¬ 
zie, Deny?” 

The two men shook hands. “ May I dance with 
your daughter? ” Derry said, smiling. 

“ Of course. She is up there on the stairs.” 

Jean saw him coming. Ever since Derry had 
stood in the door she had been trying to make up 
her mind how she would treat him when he came. 
Somebody ought to show him that his millions 
didn’t count. She hadn’t thought of his millions 
73 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


last night. If he had been just the shabby boy of 
the Toy Shop, she would have liked his eyes just as 
much, and his voice! 

But a slacker was a slacker! A coward was a 
coward! All the money in the world couldn’t take 
away the stain. A man who wouldn’t fight at this 
moment for the freedom of the world was a rene¬ 
gade ! She would have none of him. 

He came on smiling. “ Hello, Ralph. Miss Mc¬ 
Kenzie, your father says you may dance with me — 
I hope you have something left? ” 

The blood sang in her ears, her cheeks burned. 

“ I haven’t anything left — for you —” The em¬ 
phasis was unmistakable. 

Even then he did not grasp what had happened 
to him. “ Ralph will let me have one of his — be 
a good sport, Ralph.” 

“ Well, I like that,” Ralph began. Then Jean's 
crisp voice stopped him. “ I am not going to dance 
any more — my head aches. I — I shall ask 
Daddy to take me — home —” 

It was all very young and obvious. Derry gave 
her a puzzled stare. Ralph protested. “ Oh, look 
here, Jean. If you think you aren’t going to dance 
.any more with me.” 

“ Well, I’m not. I am going home. Please take 
me down to Daddy.” 

It seemed a long time before the blurred good' 
74 


TEE SLACKER 


l>yes were said, and Jean was alone witli her father 
in the cozy comfort of the closed car. 

“ Do you love me, Daddy? ” 

“ My darling, yes.” 

“ May I live with you always — to the end of my 
days? ” 

He chuckled. “ So that was it? Poor Ralph! ” 

“ You know you are not sorry for him, Daddy. 
Don’t be a hypocrite.” 

He drew her close to him. “ I should be sorry 
for myself if he took you from me.” 

She clung to him. “ He is not going to take me 
away.” 

“ Was that what you were telling him on the 
balcony stairs? ” 

“ Yes. And he said I was too young to know my 
own mind. That I was a sleeping Princess — and 
some day he would wake me — up —” 

“ Oh.” 

“ And he is not the Prince, Daddy. There isn’t 
any Prince.” 

She had shut resolutel/ away from her the vision 
of Derry Drake as she had seen him on the night of 
Cinderella. She would have no white-feathered 
knight! Princes were brave and rode to battle! 


75 


CHAPTER VI 


THE PROMISE 

It was Alma who gave Derry Drake the key to 
Jean’s conduct. 

“ Did your ears burn? ” she asked, as they danced 
together after Jean and her father had gone. 

“ When?” 

“ We were talking about you at dinner.” 

“ I hope you said nice things.” 

“ I did, of course.” Her lashes flashed up and 
fluttered down as they had flashed and fluttered for 
Ralph. Every man was for Alma a possible con¬ 
quest. Derry was big game, and as yet her little 
darts had not pierced him. She still hoped, how¬ 
ever. “ I did, but the rest didn’t.” 

He shrank from the things which she might tell 
him. “ What did they say? ” His voice caught. 

“ I shan’t tell you. But it was about the war, 
and your not fighting. As if it made any difference. 
You are as brave as any of them.” 

He glanced down at her with somber eyes. Quite 
unreasonably he hated her for her defense of him. 
If all women defended men who wouldn’t fight, 
what kind of a world would it be? Women who 
76 


THE PROMISE 


were worth anything girded their men for battle. 

He knew now the reason for Jean’s high head and 
burning cheeks, and in spite of his sense of agoniz¬ 
ing humiliation, he was glad to think of that high' 
held head. 

For such women, for such women men died! 

But not for women like Alma Drew! 

He got away from her as soon as possible. He 
got away from them all. He had a morbid sense of 
whispering voices and of averted glances. He fan¬ 
cied that Mrs. Witherspoon touched his hand coldly 
as he bade her “ good-night.” 

Well, he would not come again until he could 
meet their eyes. 

It was a perfectly clear night, and he walked 
home. With his face turned up to the stars, he 
told himself that the situation was intolerable — 
tomorrow morning, he would go to his father. 

When he reached home, his father was asleep. 
Derry looked in on him and found Bronson sitting 
erect and wide-eyed beside a night lamp which 
threw the rest of the room into a sort of golden 
darkness. The General was in a great lacquered 
bed which he had brought with him years ago from 
China. Gilded dragons guarded it and princes had 
slept in it. Heavy breathing came from the bed. 

“ I think he has caught cold, sir,” Bronson whis- 
! pored. “ I’m a bit afraid of bronchitis.” 

Derry’s voice lacked sympathy. “ I shouldn’t 

77 



THE TIN SOLDIER 

worry, Bronson. He usually comes around all 
right.” 

“ Yes, sir. I hope so, sir,” and Bronson’s spare 
figure rose to a portentous shadow, as he preceded 
Derry to the door. 

On the threshold he said, “ Dr. Richards has 
gone to the front. Shall I call Dr. McKenzie if we 
need someone —? ” 

“ Has he been left in charge? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

Derry stood for a moment undecided. “ I sup¬ 
pose there’s no reason why you shouldn’t call 
McKenzie. Do as you think best, Bronson.” 

On his way to his own room, Derry paused for a 
moment at the head of the great stairway. His 
mother’s picture hung on the landing. The dress 
in which she was painted had been w^orn to a din¬ 
ner at the White House during the first Cleveland 
Administration. It was of white brocade, with its 
ostrich feather trimming making it a rather regal 
robe. It had tight sleeves, and the neck was 
square. Around her throat was a wide collar of 
pearls with diamond slides. Her fair hair was 
combed back in the low pompadour of the period, 
and there were round flat curls on her temples. 
The picture was old-fashioned, but the painted 
woman was exquisite, as she had always been, as 
she would always be in Derry’s dreams. 

The great house had given to the General's wife 
78 


TEE PROMISE 


her proper setting. She had trailed her satins and 
silks up and down the marble stairway. Her slen¬ 
der hands, heavy with their rings, had rested on its 
balustrade, its mirrors had reflected the diamond 
tiara with which the General had crowned her. In 
the vast drawing room, the gold and jade and 
ivory treasures in the cabinets had seemed none too 
fine for this greatest treasure of them all. In the 
dining room the priceless porcelains had been 
cheapened by her greater worth. The General had 
travelled far and wide, and he had brought the 
wealth of the world to lay at the feet of his young 
wife. He adored her and he adored her son. 

“ It is just you and me, Derry,” the old man had 
said in the first moment of bereavement; “ we’ve got 
to stick it out together —” 

And they had stuck it out until the war had come, 
and patriotism had flared, and the staunch old sol¬ 
dier had spurned this — changeling. 

It seemed to Derry that if his mother could only 
step down from the picture she might make things 
right for him. But she would not step down. She 
would go on smiling her gentle painted smile as if 
nothing really mattered in the whole wide world. 

Thus, with his father asleep in the lacquered bed, 
and his mother smiling in her gilded frame, the son 
stood alone in the great shell of a house which had 
in it no beating heart, no throbbing soul to answer 
his need. 


79 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Derry’s rooms were furnished in a lower key than 
those in which his father’s taste had been followed. 
There were gray rugs and gray walls, some old 
mahogany, the snuff-box picture of Napoleon over 
his desk, a dog-basket of brown wicker in a corner. 

Muffin, Derry’s Airedale, stood at attention as 
his master came in. He knew that the length of 
his sojourn depended on his manners. 

A bright fire was burning, a long chair slanted 
across the hearthrug. Derry got into a gray dress¬ 
ing gown and threw himself into the chair. Muffin, 
with a solicitous sigh, sat tentatively on his 
haunches. His master had had no word for him. 
Things were very bad indeed, when Derry had no 
word for his dog. 

At last it came. “ Muffin — it’s a rotten old 
world.” 

Muffin’s tail beat the rug. His eager eyes asked 
for more. 

It came—“ Rotten.” 

Derry made room among the pillows, and Muf¬ 
fin curled up beside him in rapturous silence. The 
fire snapped and flared, flickered and died. Bron¬ 
son tiptoed in to ask if Derry wanted him. Young 
Martin, who valeted Derry when Bronson would 
let him, followed with more proffers of assistance. 

Derry sent them both away. “ I am going to 
bed.” 

But he did not go to bed. He read a letter which 
80 


TEE PROMISE 


his mother had written before she died. He had 
never broken the seal until now. For on the out¬ 
side of the envelope were these words in fine femi¬ 
nine script: “ Not to be opened until the time 
comes when my boy Derry is tempted to break his 
promise.” 

It began, “ Boy dear —” 

“ I wonder if I shall make you understand what 
it is so necessary that you should understand? It 
has been so hard all of these years when your clear 
little lad’s eyes have looked into mine to feel that 
some day you might blame — me. Youth is so un¬ 
compromising, Derry, dear — and so logical — so 
demanding of — justice. And life isn’t logical — 
or just — not with the sharp-edged justice which 
gives cakes to the good little boys and switches to 
the bad ones. And you have always insisted on the 
cakes and switches, Derry, and that’s why I am 
afraid of you. 

“ Even when you were only ten and I hugged you 
close in the night — those nights when we were 
alone, Derry, and your father was out on some wild 
road under the moonlight, or perhaps with the snow 
shutting out the moon, you used to whisper, < But 
he oughtn’t to do it, Mother —’ iMd I knew that 
he ought not, but, oh, Derry, I loved him, and do 
you remember, I used to say, < But he’s so good to 
us, Laddie,— and perhaps we can love him enough 
to make him stop.’ 

“ But you are a man now, Derry. I am sure von 
will be a man before you read this, for my little boy 
will obey me until he comes to man’s estate, and 
81 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


then he may say 6 She was only a foolish loving 
woman, and why should I be bound? ’ 

“ I know when that moment comes that all your 
father's money will not hold you. You will not 
sell your soul’s honor for your inheritance. 
Haven’t I known it all along? Haven't I seen you 
a little shining knight ready to do battle for your 
ideals? And haven’t I seen the clash of those 
ideals with the reality of your father’s fault? 

“ Well, there’s this to think of now, Derry, now 
that you are a man — that life isn’t white and black, 
it isn’t sheep and goats — it isn’t just good people 
and bad people with a great wall between. Life is 
gray and amethyst, it is a touch of dinginess on 
the fleece of the whole flock, and the men and women 
whom you meet will be those whose great faults are 
balanced by great virtues and whose little mean¬ 
nesses are contradicted by unexpected generosities. 

“ I am putting it this way because I want you to 
realize that except for the one fault which has 
shadowed your father’s life, there is no flaw in him. 
Other men have gone through the world apparently 
untouched by any temptation, but their families 
could tell you the story of a thousand tyrannies, 
their clerks could tell you of selfishness and hard¬ 
ness, their churches and benevolent societies could 
tell you of their lack of charity. Oh, there are 
plenty of good men in the world, Derry, strong and 
fine and big, I want you to believe that always, but 
I want you to believe, too, that there are men who 
struggle continually with temptation and seem to 
fail, but they fight with an enemy so formidable 
that I, who have seen the struggle, have shut my 
eyes — afraid to look —. 


THE PROMISE 


u And now I shall go back to the very beginning, 
and tell you how it all happened. Your father was 
only a boy when the Civil War broke out. He came 
down from Massachusetts with a regiment which 
had in it the blood of the farmers who fired the 
shot heard round the world—■. He felt that he 
was fighting for Freedom — he had all of your 
ideals, Derry, plus, perhaps, a few of his own. 

“ You know how the war dragged, four years of 
it — and much of the time that Massachusetts regi¬ 
ment was in swamp and field, on the edge of fever¬ 
breeding streams, never very well fed, cold in win¬ 
ter, hot in summer. 

“ They were given for medicine quinine and — 
whiskey. It kept them alive. Sometimes it kept 
them warm, sometimes it lifted them above reality 
and granted them a moment’s reckless happiness. 

“ It was all wrong, of course. I am making no 
plea for its rightness; and it unchained wild beasts 
in some of the men. Your father for many years 
kept his chained, but the beasts were there. 

“ He was almost fifty when I married him, and 
he was not a General. That title was given to him 
during the Spanish War. I was twenty when I 
came here a bride. There was no deception on 
your father’s part. He told me of the dragon he 
fought — he told me that he hoped with God’s help 
and mine to conquer. And I hoped, too, Derry. 
I did more than that. I was so sure of him — my 
King could do no wrong. 

“ But the day came when he went on one of those 
desolate pilgrimages where you and I so often fol¬ 
lowed in later years. I am not going to try to tell 
you how we fought together, Derry; how I learned 
83 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


with such agony of soul that a man’s will is like 
wax in the fire of temptation — oh, Derry, Derry —. 

“ I am telling you this for more reasons than one. 
What your father has been you might be. With all 
your ideals there may be in you some heritage of 
weakness, of appetite. Wild beasts can conquer 
you, too, if you let them in. And that’s why I have 
preached and prayed. That’s why I’ve kept you 
from that which overcame your father. You are 
no better, no stronger, than he was in the glory of 
his youth. But I have barred the doors against 
the flaming dragon. 

“ I have no words eloquent enough to tell you of 
Ms care of me, his consideration, his devotion. Yet 
nothing of all this helped in those strange moods 
that came upon him. Then you were forgotten, I 
was forgotten, the world was forgotten, and he let 
everything go —. 

“ I have kept what I have suffered to some extent 
from the world. If people have pitied they have 
had the grace at least not to let me see. The trag¬ 
edy has been that you should have been sacrificed 
to it, your youth shadowed. But what could I do? 
I felt that you must know, must see, and I felt, too, 
that the salvation of the father might be accom¬ 
plished through the son. 

“ And so I let you go out into the night after him, 
I let you know that which should, perhaps, have 
been hidden from you. But I loved him, Derry — 
I loved you — I did the best I could for both of 
you. 

“ And now because of the past, I plead for the 
future. I w r ant you to stay with him, Derry. No 
matter what happens I beg that you will stay — 
84 


THE PROMISE 


for the sake of the boy who was once like you, for 
the sake of the man who held your mother always 
close to his heart, for the sake of the mother who in 
Heaven holds you to your promise.” 

The great old house was very still. Somewhere 
in a shadowed room an old man slept heavily with 
his servant sitting stiff and straight beside him, at 
the head of the stairway a painted bride smiled in 
the darkness, the dog Muffin stirred and whined. 

Derry’s head was buried deep in the cushion. 
His hands clutched the letter which had cut the 
knot of his desperate decision. 

No — one could not break a promise to a mother 
in Heaven. . . . 

He waked heavily in the morning. Bronson was 
beside his bed. “ I am sorry to disturb you, sir, 
but Dr. McKenzie would like to speak to you.” 

“ McKenzie? ” 

“ Yes, sir. I had to call him last night. Your 
father was worse.” 

“ Bring him right in here, Bronson, and have 
some coffee for us.” 

When Dr. McKenzie was ushered into Derry's 
sitting room, he found a rather pale and languid 
young man in the long chair. 

“ I hated to wake you, Drake. But it was rather 
necessary that I should talk your father's case over 
with you.” 

“ Is he very ill? ” 


85 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ It isn’t that — there are complications that I 
ion’t care to discuss with servants.” 

“ You mean he has been drinking? ” 

“ Yes. Heavily. You realize that’s a rather 
serious thing for a man of his age.” 

“ I know it. But there’s nothing to be done.” 

“ What makes you say that? ” 

“ We’ve tried specialists — cures, I’ve been half 
around the world with him.” 

The Doctor nodded. “ It’s hard to pull up at 
that age.” 

“ My mother’s life was spent in trying to help 
him. He’s a dear old chap, really.” 

“ There is, of course, the possibility that he may 
get a grip on himself.” 

Derry’s languor left him. “ Do you think there’s 
the least hope of it? Frankly? No platitudes?” 

“ We are making some rather interesting experi¬ 
ments — psycho-analysis — things like that —” 

He stood up. He was big and breezy. “ What’s 
the matter with you this morning? You ought to 
be up and out.” 

Derry flushed. “ Nothing — much.” 

The Doctor sat down again. “ I’d tell most men 
to take a cold shower and a two hours’ tramp, but 
it’s more than that with you —.” 

“ It’s a case of suspended activity. I want to 
get into the war —” 

4C Why don’t you? ” 


86 


THE PROMISE 


“ I can’t leave Dad. Surely you can see that.” 

“ I don't see it. He must reap, every man 
must.” 

“ But there’s more than that. My mother tied 
me by a promise. And people are calling me a 
coward — even Dad thinks I am a slacker, and I 
can’t say to him, ‘ If you were more than the half 
of a man I might be a whole one.’ ” 

“ Your mother couldn’t have foreseen this war.” 

u It would have made no difference. Her world 
was centered in him. You know, of course, Doctor, 
that I wouldn’t have spoken of this to anyone 
else —” 

“ My dear fellow, I am father confessor to half 
of my patients.” The Doctor’s eyes were kind. 
“ My lips will be sealed. But if you want my advice 
I should throw the old man overboard. Let him 
sink or swim. Your life is your own.” 

“ It has never been my own.” He went to a desk 
and took out an envelope. “ It’s a rather sacred 
letter, but I want you to read it — I read it for the 
first time last night.” 

When at last the Doctor laid the letter down, 
Derry said very low, “ Do you blame me? ” 

“ My dear fellow, she had no right to ask it.” 

“ But having asked —? ” 

“ It is a moving letter, and you loved her — but I 
still contend she had no right to ask.” 

“ I gave my sacred word.” 

87 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ I question whether any promise should stand 
between a man and his country's need of him.” 

They faced each other. “ I wonder —■” Derry 
said, “ X — I must think it over, Doctor.” 

“ Give yourself a chance if you do. We can go 
too far in our sacrifice for others —.” He resumed 
his brisk professional manner. “ In the meantime 
you’ve a rather sick old gentleman on your hands* 
You’d better get a nurse.” 


CHAPTER VII 


HILDA 

The argument came up at breakfast two days be* 
fore Thanksgiving. It was a hot argument. Jean 
beat her little hands upon the table. Hilda’s hands 
were still, but it was an irritating stillness. 

“ What do you think, Daddy? ” 

“ Hilda is right. There is no reason w T hy we 
should go to extremes.” 

“ But a turkey —.” 

“ Nobody has said that we shouldn’t have a turkey 
on Thanksgiving *— not even Hoover.” Hilda’s 
voice was as irritating as her hands. 

“ Well, we have consciences, Hilda. And a 
turkey would choke me.” 

“ You make so much of little things.” 

“ Is it a little thing to sacrifice our appetites? ” 

“ I don’t think it is a very big thing.” The office 
bell rang, and Hilda rose. “ If I felt as you do I 
should sacrifice something more than things to eat. 
I’d go over there and nurse the wounded. I could 
be of real service. But you couldn’t. With all 
your big ideas of patriotism you couldn’t do one 
single practical thing.” 

m 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


It was true, and Jean knew that it was true, but 
she fired one more shot. “ Then why don’t you 
£0?” she demanded fiercely. 

“ I may,” Hilda said slowly. “ I have been think¬ 
ing about it. I haven’t made up my mind.” 

Dr. McKenzie glanced at her in surprise. “ I 
didn’t dream you felt that way.” 

“ I don’t think I do mean it in the way you mean. 
I should go because there was something worth do¬ 
ing — not as a grandstand play.” 

She went out of the room. Jean stared after her. 

The Doctor laughed. “ She got you there, 
girlie.” 

“ Yes, she did. Do you really think she intends 
to go, Daddy? ” 

“ It is news to me.” 

“ Good news? ” 

He shook Ms head. “She is a very valuable 
nurse. I should hate to lose her.” He sat for a 
moment in silence, then stood up. “ I shouldn’t 
hold out for a turkeyless Thanksgiving if I were you. 
It isn’t necessary.” 

“ Are you taking Hilda’s part, Daddy? ” 

“ No, my dear, of course not.” He came over and 
kissed her. “Will you ride with me this morn¬ 
ing? ” , 

“ Oh, yes — how soon ? ” 

“ In ten minutes. After I see this patient.” 

In less time than that she was ready and waiting 
9 $ 


HILDA 

for him in her squirrel coat and hat and her little 
muff. 

Her father surveyed her. “ Such a lovely lady.” 

“ Do you like me, Daddy? ” 

“ What a question — I love you.” 

Safe in the car, with the glass screen shutting 
away the chauffeur, Jean returned to the point of 
attack. 

“ Hilda makes me furious, Daddy. I came to 
talk about her.” 

“ I thought you came because you wanted to ride 
with me.” 

“ Well, I did. But for this, too.” 

Over her muff, her stormy eyes surveyed him. 
u You think I am unreasonable about meatless and 
wheatless days. But you don’t know. Hilda ig¬ 
nores them, Daddy — you should see the breadbox. 
And the other day she ordered a steak for dinner, 
one of those big thick ones — and it was Tuesday, 
and I happened to go down to the kitchen and saw 
it — and I told the cook that we wouldn’t have it, 
and when I came up I told Hilda, and she laughed 
and said that I was silly. 

“ And I said that if she had that steak cooked I 
would not eat it, and I should ask you not to eat 
it, and she just stood with her hands flat on your 
desk, you know the way she does — I hate her 
hands — and she said that of course if I was going 
to make a fuss about it she wouldn’t have the steak* 
91 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


but that it was simply a thing she couldn’t under* 
stand. The steak was there, why not eat it? And 
I said it was because of the psychological effect on 
other people. And she said we were having too 
much psychology and not enough common sense in 
this war! 

“ Well, after that, I went to my Red Cross meet¬ 
ing at the church. I expected to have lunch there, 
but I changed my mind and came home. Hilda was 
at the table alone, and, Daddy, she was eating the 
steak, the whole of it —.” She paused to note the 
effect of her revelation. 

"Well?” 

" She was eating it when all the world needs 
food! She made me think of those dreadful crea¬ 
tures in the fairy books. She’s — she’s a ghoul —” 

" My dear.” 

" A ghoul. You should have seen her, with great 
chunks of bread and butter.” 

" Hilda has a healthy appetite.” 

" Of course you defend her.” 

" My dear child —” 

" Oh you do, Daddy, always, against me — and 
I’m your daughter —” 

She wept a tear or two into her muff, then raised 
her eyes to find him regarding her quizzically. 
“Are you going to spoil my ride? ” 

" You are spoiling mine.” 

" We won’t quarrel about it. And we’ll stop at 
92 


HILDA 

Small’s. Shall it be roses or violets, to-day, my 

dear? ” 

She chose violets, as more in accord with her 
pensive mood, lighting the bunch, however, with 
one red rose. The question of Hilda was not set¬ 
tled, but she yielded as many an older woman has 
yielded — to the sweetness of tribute — to man’s 
impulse to make things right not by justice but by 
the bestowal of his bounty. 

From the florist’s, they went to Huyler’s old shop 
on F Street, where the same girl had served Jean 
with ice-cream sodas and hot chocolate for fifteen 
years. Administrations might come and adminis¬ 
trations go, but these pleasant clerks had been cup¬ 
bearers to them all — Presidents’ daughters and 
diplomats’ sons — the sturdy children of plain Con¬ 
gressmen, the scions of noble families across the 
seas. 

It was while Jean sat on a high stool beside her 
father, the sunshine shining on her through the 
wide window, that Derry Drake, coming down 
Twelfth, saw her! 

Well, he wanted a lemonade. And the fact that 
she was there in a gray squirrel coat and bunch of 
violets with her copper-colored hair shining over 
her ears wasn’t going to leave him thirsty! 

He went in. He bowed to the Doctor and re¬ 
ceived a smile in return. Jean’s eyes were cold 
above her chocolate. Derry bought his check, went 
93 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


to a little table on the raised platform at the back 
of the room, drank his lemonade and hurried out. 

“A nice fellow/’ said the Doctor, watching him 
through the window. “ I wonder why he didn't stop 
and speak to us? ” 

“ I’m glad he didn’t.” 

“ My dear, why? ” 

“ I’ve found out things —” 

“ What things? ” 

“ That he’s a — coward,” with tense earnestness. 
u He won’t fight.” 

“ Who told you that? ” 

“ Everybody’s saying it.” 

“ Everybody is dead wrong.” 

“ What do you mean, Daddy? ” 

“ What I have just said. Everybody is dead 
wrong.” 

“ How do you know? ” 

“ A doctor knows a great many things which he 
is not permitted to tell. I am rather bound not to 
tell in this case.” 

“ Oh, but you could tell me.” 

“ Hardly — it was given in confidence.” 

“ Did he? Oh, Daddy, did he tell you? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And he isn’t a slacker? ” 

“ No.” 

“ I knew it —.” 

“ You didn’t. You thought he was a coward.” 

94 


HILDA 


“ Well, I ought to have known better. He looks 
brave, doesn’t he? ” 

“ I shouldn’t call him exactly a heroic figure.” 

“ Shouldn’t you? ” 

She finished her chocolate in silence, and followed 
him in silence to his car. They sped up F Street, 
gay with its morning crowd. 

Then at last it came. “ Isn’t it a wonderful day, 
Daddy? ” 

He smiled down at her. “ There you go.” 

“ Well, it is wonderful.” She fell again into si¬ 
lence, then again bestowed upon him her raptures. 
“ Wouldn’t it be dreadful if we had loveless days, 
Daddy, as well as meatless ones and wheatless? ” 

That night, after Jean had gone to bed, the Doc¬ 
tor, having dismissed his last patient, came out of 
his inner office. Hilda, in her white nurse’s cos¬ 
tume, w r as busy with the books. He stood beside 
her desk. His eyes were dancing. “Jean told 
me about the steak.” 

“ I knew she would — I suppose it was an awful 
thing to do. But I was hungry, and I hate fish —” 
She smiled at him lazily, then laughed. 

He laughed back. He felt that it would be un¬ 
bearable for Hilda to go hungry, to spoil her red 
and white with abstinence. 

“My dear girl,” he said, “what did you mean 
when you spoke of going away? ” 

“ Haven’t you been thinking of going?” 

95 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

The color came np in Ms cheeks. “ Yes, but how 
did you know it? " 

« Well, a woman knows. Why don't you make 
up your mind? " 

“ There's Jean to think of." 

“ Emily Bridges could take care of her. And 
you ought to go. Men are seeing things oyer there 
that they’ll never see again. And women are." 

“ If my country needs me —" 

Hilda was cold. a I shouldn't go for that. As I 
told Jean, I am not making any grand stand plays. 
I should go for all that I get out of it, the experi- 
ence, the adventure — 

He looked at her with some curiosity. Jean's 
words of the afternoon recurred to him. “ She's a 
ghoul —" 

Yet there was something almost fascinating in 
her frankness. She tore aside ruthlessly the cur¬ 
tain of self-deception, revealing her motives, as if 
she challenged him to call them less worthy than 
his own. 

“ If I go, it will be because I want to become a 
better nurse. I like it here, but your practice is 
necessarily limited. I should get a wider view of 
things. So would you. There would be new worlds 
of disease, men in all conditions of nervous shock." 

“ I know. But I'd hate to think I was going 
merely for selfish ends." 

96 


HILDA 

She shrugged. “Why not that as well as any 
other? ” 

He had a smouldering sense of irritation. 

“ When I am with Jean she makes me feel rather 
big and fine; when I am with you —” He paused. 

“ I make you see yourself as you are, a man. She 
thinks you are more than that.” 

All his laughter left him. “ It is something to 
be a hero to one’s daughter. Perhaps some day I 
shall be a little better for her thinking so.” 

She saw that she had gone too far. “You 
mustn’t take the things I say too seriously.” 

The bell of the telephone at her elbow whirred. 
She put the receiver to her ear. “It is General 
Drake’s man; he thinks you’d better come over be¬ 
fore you go to bed.” 

“ I was afraid I might have to go. He is in 
rather bad shape, Hilda.” 

She packed his bag for him competently, and 
telephoned for his car. “ I’ll have a cup of coffee 
ready for you when you get back,” she said, as she 
stood in the door. “ It is going to be a dreadful 
night.” 

The streets were icy and the sleet falling. 
“ You’d better have your overshoes,” Hilda decided, 
and went for them. 

As he put them on, she stood under the hall light, 
smiling. “ Have you forgiven me? ” she asked as 
he straightened up. 

97 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“For telling me the truth? Of course. You. 
take such good care of me, Hilda.” 

Upstairs in her own room Jean w^as writing a 
letter. It was a very pretty room, very fresh and 
frilly with white dimity and with much pink and 
pale lavender. The night-light which shone 
through the rose taffeta petticoats of a porcelain 
lady was supplemented at the moment by a bed-side 
lamp which flung a ring of gold beyond Jean’s blot¬ 
ter to the edge of the lace spread. For Jean w T as 
writing in bed. All day her mind had been revolv¬ 
ing around this letter, but she had had no time to 
write. She had spent the afternoon in the Toy 
Shop with Emily, and in the evening there had been 
a Ked Cross sale. She had gone to the sale with 
Ralph Witherspoon and his mother. She had not 
been able to get out of going. All the time she had 
talked to Ralph she had thought of Derry. She 
had rather hoped that he might be there, but he 
wasn’t. 

The letter required much thought. She tore up, 
extravagantly, several sheets of note-paper with 
tiny embossed thistles at the top. Doctor Mc¬ 
Kenzie was intensely Scotch, and he was entitled 
to a crest, but he was also intensely American, and 
would have none of it. He had designed Jean’s 
note-paper, and it was lovely. But it was also ex¬ 
pensive, and it w T as a shame to waste so much of it 
on Derry Drake, 


98 


HILDA 


The note when it was finished seemed very simple*, 
Just one page in Jean’s firm, clear script; 

“ Dear Mr. Drake: — 

“ Could you spare me one little minute tomor¬ 
row? I shall be at home at four. It is very impor¬ 
tant —to me at least. Perhaps when you hear what 
I have to say, it will seem important to you. I 
hope it may. 

w Very sincerely yours, 

“ Jean McKenzie.” 

She read it over several times. It seemed very 
stiff and inadequate. She sealed it and stamped it, 
then in a panic tore it open for a re-reading. She 
was oppressed by doubts. Did nice girls ask men 
to come and see them? Didn’t they wait and weary 
like Mariana of the Moated Grange —? “ He com- 
eth not, she said? ” 

New times! New manners! She had branded a 
man as a coward. She had condemned him un¬ 
heard. She had slighted him, she had listened 
while others slandered — why should she care what 
other women had done? Would do? Her way was 
clear. She owed an apology to Derry Drake, and 
! she would make it. 

So with a new envelope, a new stamp, the note 
! was again sealed. 

It had to be posted that night. She felt that 
under no circumstance could she stand the sus- 
j| pense of another day. 


99 



TEE TIN SOLDIER 


She had heard her father go out. Hilda was com¬ 
ing up, the maids were asleep. She waited until 
Hilda’s door was shut, then she slipped out of bed, 
tucked her toes into a pair of sandals, threw a 
furry motor coat around her, and sped silently 
down the stairs. She shrank back as she opened 
the front door. The sleet rattled on the steps, the 
pavements were covered with white. 

The mail-box was in front of the house. She 
made a rush for it, dropped in the precious letter, 
and gained once more the haven of the warm hall. 

She was glad to get back to her room. As she 
settled down among her pillows, she had a great 
sense of adventure, as if she had travelled far in a 
few moments. 

As a matter of fact she had made her lirst real 
excursion into the land of romance. She found her 
thoughts galloping. 

At the foot of the bed her silver Persian, Polly 
Ann, lay curled on her own gray blanket. 

“ Polly Ann,” Jean said, “ if he doesn’t come, I 
shall hate myself for writing that note.” 

Polly Ann surveyed her sleepily. 

“ But it would serve me right if he didn’t, Polly 
Ann.” 

She turned off the light and tried to sleep. 
Downstairs the telephone rang. It rang, too, in 
Hilda’s room. Hilda’s door opened and shut 
100 


HILDA 

She came across the hall and tapped on Jean’s door*. 
“ May I come in? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Your father has just telephoned/’ Hilda said 
from the threshold, “ that General Drake’s nurse is 
not well, and will have to be taken off the case. I 
shall have to go in her place. There is a great short¬ 
age at the hospital. Will you be afraid to stay 
alone, or shall I wake up Ellen and have her sleep 
on the couch in your dressing room? ” 

“ Of course I am not afraid, Hilda. Nothing can 
happen until father comes back.” 

As Hilda went away, Jean had a delicious feeling 
of detachment. She would be alone in the house 
with her thoughts of Derry. 

She got out of bed to say her prayers. With 
something of a thrill she prayed for Derry’s father. 

! She was not conscious as she made her petitions of 
any ulterior motive. Yet a placated Providence 
I would, she felt sure, see that the General’s sickness 
should not frustrate the plans which she had quite 
daringly made for his son. 


101 



CHAPTER VIII 


THE SHADOWED ROOM 

Derry had dined that night with his cousin, Mar¬ 
garet Morgan. Margaret’s husband was some¬ 
where in France with Pershing’s divisions. Mar¬ 
garet was to have news of him this evening, 
brought by a young English officer, Dawson Hewes, 
who had been wounded at Ypres, and who had come 
on a recruiting mission among his countrymen in 
America. 

The only other guest was to be Drusilla Gray. 

Derry had gone over early to have the twilight 
hour with Margaret’s children. There was Theo¬ 
dore, the boy, and Margaret-Mary, on the edge of 
three. They had their supper at five in the nurs¬ 
ery, and after that there was always the story hour, 
with nurse safely downstairs for her dinner, their 
mother, lovely in a low-necked gown, and father 
coming in at the end. For several months their 
father had not come, and the best they could do 
was to kiss his picture in the frame with the eagle 
on it, to put flowers in front of it, and to say their 
little prayers for the safety of men in battle. 

It was Cousin Derry who dropped in now at the 
102 


THE SHADOWED ROOM 


evening hour. He was a famous story-teller, and 
they always welcomed him uproariously. 

Margaret Morgan, perhaps better than any other,, 
knew in those days what w T as in Derry’s heart. 
She knew the things against which he had strug¬ 
gled, and she had rebelled hotly. “ Why should he 
be sacrificed?” she had asked her husband more 
than once during the three years which had pre¬ 
ceded America’s entrance into the war. “ He wants 
to be over there driving an ambulance — doing his 
bit. Aunt Edith always idealized the General, and 
Derry is paying the price.” 

“ Most women idealize the men they love, honey- 
girl.” Winston Morgan was from the South, and he 
drew upon its store of picturesque endearments to 
express his joy and pride in his own Peggy. “ And 
if they didn’t where should we be? ” 

She had leaned her head against him. “ I don’t 
need to idealize you,” she had said, comfortably, 
“ but the General is different. Aunt Edith made 
Derry live his father’s life, not his own, and it has 
moulded him into something less than he might have 
been if he had been allowed more initiative.” 

Winston had shaken his head. “ Discipline is a 
mighty good thing in the Army, Peggy, and it’s a 
mighty good thing in life. Derry Drake is as hard 
as steel, and as finely tempered. If he ever does 
break loose, he’ll be all the more dynamic for having 
held himself back.” 


103 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Margaret, conceding all that, was yet constrained 
to pour out upon Derry tlie wealth of her womanly 
sympathy. It was perhaps the knowledge of this 
as well as his devotion to her children which 
brought him often to her door. 

Tonight she was sitting on a low-backed seat in 
front of the fire with a child on each side of her. 
She was in white, her dark hair in a simple shining 
knot, a little pearl heart which had been Captain 
Morgan’s parting gift, her only ornament. 

“ Go on with your story,” he said, as he came 
in. “ I just want to listen and do nothing.” 

She glanced up at him. He looked tired, unlike 
himself, depressed. 

“ Anything the matter? ” 

“ Father isn’t well. Dr. McKenzie has taken the 
case. Richards has gone to the front. Bronson 
will call me if there are any unfavorable develop¬ 
ments.” 

Margaret-Mary, curled up like a kitten in the 
curve of Cousin Derry’s arm, was exploring his vest 
pocket. She found two very small squares of Wash¬ 
ington taffy wrapped in wax paper, one for herself 
and one for Teddy. It was Derry’s war-time offer¬ 
ing. No other candies were permitted by Mar¬ 
garet’s patriotism. Her children ate molasses on 
their bread, maple sugar on their cereal. Her sol¬ 
dier was in France, and there were other soldiers, 
not one of whom should suffer because of the wan- 
104 


THE SHADOWED ROOM 

ton waste of food by the people who stayed softly at 
home. 

“ You tell us a story, Uncle Derry,” Teddy 
pleaded as he ate his taffy. 

u I’d rather listen to your mother.” 

“ They are tired of me,” Margaret told him. 

“We are not ti-yard,” her small son enunciated 
carefully, “ but you said you had to fix the Powers.” 

“ Well, I have. May I turn them oyer to you ? 
Derry ? ” 

“ For a minute. But you must come back.” 

She came back presently, to find the lights out 
and only the glow of the fire to illumine faintly the 
three figures on the sofa. She stood unseen in the 
door and listened. 

u And so the Tin Soldier stood on the shelf where 
the little boy had put him, and nothing happened 
in the old, old house. There was just an old, old 
man, and walls covered with old, old portraits, and 
knights in armor, and wooden trumpeters carved 
on the door who blew with all their might , 6 Trutter- 
a-trutt, Trutter-a-trutt ’—. But the old man and 
the portraits and the wooden trumpeters had no 
thought for the Tin Soldier who stood there on the 
shelf, alone and longing to go to the war. And at 
last the Tin Soldier cried out, 6 1 can’t stand it. I 
want to go tc the wars — I want to go to the wars ! y 
But nobody listened or cared.” 

“ Poor ’itte sing,” Margaret-Mary crooned. 

105 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ If I had been there/’ Teddy proclaimed, “ I’d 
have put him on the floor and told him to run and 
run and run! ” 

“ But there was nobody to put him on the floor,” 
said Derry, “ so at last the Tin Soldier could stand 
it no longer. 6 1 will go to the wars, I will go to the 
wars/ he cried, and he threw himself down from 
the shelf.” 

The story stopped suddenly. “ Go on, go on,” 
urged the little voices in the dark. 

“ Perhaps you think that was the end of it, and 
that the Tin Soldier ran away to the wars, to help 
his country and save the world from ruin. But 
Fate wasn't as kind to him as that. For when the 
little boy came again to the old house, he looked 
for the Tin Soldier. But he wasn’t on the shelf. 
And he looked and looked and the old man looked, 
and the wooden trumpeters blew out their cheeks, 
* Trutter-a-trutt, trutter-a-trutt — where is the Tin 
Soldier? — trutter-a-trutt —.’ 

“ But they did not find him, for the Tin Soldier 
had fallen through a crack in the floor, and there 
he lay as in an open grave.” 

Drusilla’s voice was heard in the lower hall, and 
the deeper voice of Captain Hewes. Margaret sped 
down to meet them, leaving the story, reluctantly, 
in that moment of heart-breaking climax. 

When later Derry followed her, she had a chance 
to say, “ I hope you gave it a happy ending.” 

106 


THE SHADOWED ROOM 


“Oh, did you hear? Yes. They found him in 
time to send him away to war. But Hans Ander¬ 
sen didn’t end it that way. He knew life.” 

She stared at him in amazement. Was this the 
Derry whose supply of cheerfulness had seemed in¬ 
exhaustible? Whose persistent optimism had been 
at times exasperating to his friends? 

Throughout the evening she was aware of his de¬ 
pression. She was aware, too, of the mistake which 
she had made in bringing Derry and Captain Hewes 
together. 

The Captain had red hair and a big nose. But 
he was a gentleman in the fine old English sense; 
he was a soldier with but one idea, that every physi¬ 
cally able man should fight. Every sentence that he 
spoke was charged with this belief, and every sen¬ 
tence carried a sting for Derry. 

More than once Peggy found it necessary to 
change the subject frantically. Drusilla supple¬ 
mented her efforts. 

But gradually the Captain s manner froze. With 
a sort of military sixth sense, he felt that he had 
been asked to break bread and eat salt with a 
slacker, and he resented it. 

After dinner Drusilla sang for them. Sensitive 
always to atmosphere, she soothed the Captain with 
old and familiar songs, “ Flow gently, sweet Afton,” 
and “ Believe me if all those endearing young 
ch/ 


107 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


Then straight from these to “ I’m going to marry 
5 Arry on the Fifth of January.” 

“ Oh, I say — Harry Lauder,” was Captain 
Hewes’ eager comment. “ I heard him singing to 
the chaps in the trenches just before I sailed — a 
little stocky man in a red kilt. He’d laugh, and 
you’d want to cry.” 

Drusilla gave them “Wee Hoose among the 
Heather,” with the touch of pathos which the little 
man in the red kilt had imparted to it as he had 
sung it in October in New York before an audL 
ence which had wept as it had welcomed him. 

“ Queer thing,” Captain Hewes mused, “ what the 
war has done to him, set him preaching and all that.” 

“ Oh, it isn’t queer,” Margaret was eager. “ That 
is one of the things the war is doing, bringing men 
back to — God —” A sob caught in her throat. 

Drusilla’s hands strayed upon the keys, and into 
the Battle Hymn of the Kepublic. 

“ I have seen Him in the watch fires of a hundred circling 
camps, 

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and 
damps, 

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps , 
His day is marching on —” 

It was an old tune, but the words were new to 
Captain Hewes — as the girl chanted them, in that 
repressed voice that yet tore the heart out of him. 

“He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call re- 
treat, 


108 


THE SHADOWED ROOM 


He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat * 
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him, be jubilant my feet , 

Our God is marching on —” 

The Captain sat on the edge of his chair. His 
face was illumined. 

“ By Jove,” he ejaculated, “ that’s topping! ” 

Drusilla stood up with her back to the piano, and 
sang without music. 

“ In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea —* 
With the glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me, 
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 

While God is marching on —” 

She w r ore a gown of sheer dull blue, there was a 
red rose in her hair — her white arms, her white 
neck, the blue and red, youth and fire, strength and 
purity. 

When she finished the room w r as very still. The 
big Englishman had no words for such a moment. 
The music had swept him up to unexpected heights 
of emotion. While Drusilla sang he had glimpsed 
for the first time the meaning of democracy, he had 
seen, indeed, in a great and lofty sense, for the first 
time — America. 

Among the shadows a young man shrank in his 
seat. His vision was not of Democracy, but of a 
freezing night — of a ragged old voice rising from 
the blackness of a steep ravine — 

“ Oh, be swift, my soul — to answer — Him — 

Be jubilant my feet —” 

109 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Why had Drusilla chosen that of all songs? Oh r 
why had she sung at all? 

A maid came in to say that Mr. Drake was 
wanted at the telephone. The message was from 
Dr. McKenzie. The General was much worse. It 
might be well for Derry to come home. 

So Derry, with a great sense of relief, got away 
from the frigid Captain, and from the flaming Dru¬ 
silla, and from Peggy with her flushed air of apol¬ 
ogy, and went out into the stormy night. He had 
preferred to walk, although his shoes were thin. 
“ It isn’t far,” he had said when Margaret expostu¬ 
lated, “ and I’ll send my car for Drusilla and Cap¬ 
tain Hewes.” 

The sleet drove against his face. His feet were 
wet before he reached the first corner, the wind buf¬ 
feted him. But he felt none of it. He was con¬ 
scious only of his depression and of his great dread 
of again entering the big house where a sick man 
lay in a lacquered bed and where a painted lady 
smiled on the stairs. Where there was nothing 
alive, nothing young, nothing with lips to welcome 
him, or with hands to hold out to him. 

He found when at last he arrived that the Doctor 
had sent for Hilda Merritt. 

She came presently, in her long blue cloak and 
small blue bonnet. Hilda made no mistakes in the 
matter of clothes. She realized the glamour which 
110 


THE SHADOWED ROOM 


her nurse’s uniform cast over her. In evening dress 
she was slightly commonplace. In ordinary street 
garb not an eye would have been turned upon her, 
but the nun’s blue and white of her uniform added 
the required spiritual effect to her rather full¬ 
blown beauty. 

As she passed the painted lady at the head of the 
stairway she gave her a slight glance. Then on and 
up she went to her appointed task. 

“ It is pneumonia,” Dr. McKenzie told Derry; 
“ that’s why I wanted Miss Merritt. She is very 
experienced, and in these days of war it is hard to 
get good nurses.” 

Derry found his voice shaking. “ Is there any 
danger?” 

“ Naturally, at his age. But I think we are going 
to pull him through.” 

Derry went into the shadowed room. His father 
was breathing heavily. Something clutched at the 
boy’s heart — the fear of the Thing which lurked in 
the darkness — a chill and sinister figure with a 
skeleton hand. 

He could not have his father die. He would feel 
as if his thoughts had killed him — a murderer in 
intention if not in deed. Not thus must the Ob¬ 
stacle be removed. He raised haggard eyes to the 
Doctor’s face. “ You — you mustn’t think that I 
store things up against him. He’s all I have.” 

Ill 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


The Doctor’s keen glance appraised him. “ Don’t 
get morbid over it; he has everything in his favor —• 
and Miss Merritt is famous in such cases.” 

Hilda took his praise with downcast eyes. Her 
manner with the Doctor when others w T ere present 
was professionally deferential. It was only when 
they were alone that the nurse was submerged in 
the woman. 

With her bonnet off and a white cap in its place,, 
she moved about the room. “ I shall be very com* 
fortable,” she said, wiien Derry inquired if any> 
thing could be done for her. 

“ We haven’t any women about the place but 
Cook,” he explained. “ She has been in our family 
forever —” 

“ I’ll put a day nurse on tomorrow,” the Doctor 
said, “ but I want Hilda with him at night; she can 
call me up if there’s any change, and I’ll come right 
over.” 

When the Doctor had gone, Derry, seeking his 
room, found Muffin waiting. Bronson bustled in 
to see that his young master got out of his wet 
clothes and into a hot bath. “All the time the 
Doctor was talking to you, I was worrying about 
your shoes. Your feet are soaked, sir. Whatever 
made you walk in the rain? ” 

“ I couldn’t ride — I couldn’t.” 

The old man on his knees removing the wet shoes 
looked up. “ Restless, sir ? ” 

112 


THE SHADOWED ROOM 


“Yes. There are times, Bronson, when I want 
— my mother.” 

He could say it in this room to Bronson and Muf¬ 
fin — to the gray old dog and the gray old man who 
adored him. 

Bronson put him to bed, settled Muffin among his 
blankets in a basket by the hot water pipes, opened 
the windows wide, said “ God bless you,” and went 
away. 

“ Sweet dreams, Muffin,” said Derry from the big 
bed. 

The old dog whuffed discreetly. 

It was their nightly ceremony. 

The sleet came down in golden streaks against 
the glow of the street lights. Derry lay watching 
it, and it was a long time before he slept. Not 
since his mother’s death had he been so weighed 
down with heaviness. 

He kept seeing Jean with her head up, declining 
to dance with him; on the high stool at the con¬ 
fectioner’s, her eyes cold above her chocolate; the 
English Captain and his contemptuous stare; Alma, 
basely excusing him; Drusilla, in l;?r red and blue 
and white — singing —! 

He waked in the morning with a sore throat. 
Young Martin came in to light the fire and draw 
the water for his bath. Later Bronson brought his 
breakfast and the mail. 

“ You’d better stay in bed, Mr. Derry.” 

113 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


u I think I shall. How is Dad? ” 

% The nurse says he is holding his own.” 

'* I am glad of that.” 

Bronson, feeding warm milk and toast to Muflinj 
ventured an opinion, “ I am not sure that I like the 
nurse, sir.” 

“ Why not? ” 

“ She’s not exactly a lady, and she’s not exactly 
a nurse.” 

“ I see.” Derry, having glanced over a letter or 
two, had picked up an envelope with embossed 
thistles on the flap. “ But she is rather pretty, 
Bronson.” 

“ Pretty is as pretty does,” sententiously. 

Silence. Bronson looked across at the young 
man propped up among the pillows. He was re¬ 
reading the letter with the thistles on the flap. 
The strained look had gone out of his eyes, and his 
lips were smiling. 

“ I think I’ll get up.” 

“ Changed your mind, sir? ” 

“ Yes.” He threw back the covers. “ I’ve a thou¬ 
sand things to do.” 

But there was just one thing which he was going 
to do which stood out beyond all others. Neither 
life nor death nor flood nor fire should keep him 
from presenting himself at four o’clock at Jean 
McKenzie’s door, in response to the precious note 
H>*«h in a moment had changed the world for him, 
114 


CHAPTER IX 
rose-color! 

Jean found the day stretching out ahead of her 
in a series of exciting events. At the breakfast 
table her father told her that Hilda would stay on 
General Drake’s case, and that she had better have 
Emily Bridges up for a visit. 

“ I don’t like to have you alone at night, if I am 
called away.” 

“ It will be heavenly, Daddy, to have Emily —” 

And how was he to know r that there were other 
heavenly things to happen? She had resolved that 
if Derry came, she would tell her father afterwards. 
But he might not come, so what was the use of be¬ 
ing premature? 

She sallied down to the Toy Shop in high feather. 
“ You are to stay with us, Emily.” 

u Oh, am I ? How do you know that I can make 
it convenient ? ” 

“ But you will, darling.” 

Jean’s state of mind was beatific. She painted 
Lovely Dreams with a touch of inspiration which 
resulted in a row of purple camels. “ Midnight on 
the Desert,” Jean called them. 

“ Oh, Emily,” she said, “ we must have them in 
115 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


the window on Christmas morning, with the Wise 
Men and the Star —” 

Emily, glancing at the face above the blue apron, 
was struck by the radiance of it. 

“ Is it because Hilda is away? ” she asked. 

“ Is what —? ” 

u Your — rapture.” 

Jean laughed. “ It is because Hilda is away, 
and other things. But I can’t tell you now.” 

Then for fear Emily might be hurt by her secrecy, 
she flew to kiss her and again call her “ Darling.” 

At noon she put on her hat and ran home, or at 
least her heart ran, and when she reached the house 
she sought the kitchen. 

“ I am having company for tea, Ellen — at four. 
And I want Lady-bread-and-butter, and oh, Ellen, 
will you have time for little pound cakes? ” 

She knew of course that pound cakes were — 
verboten. She felt, however, that even Mr. Hoover 
might sanction a fatted calf in the face of this su¬ 
preme event. 

She planned that she would receive Derry in the 
small drawing room. It was an informal room 
which had been kept by her mother for intimate 
friends. There was a wide window which faced 
west, a davenport in deep rose velvet, some chairs 
to match, and there were always roses in an old 
blue bowl. 

Jean knew the dress she was going to wear in this 
116 


RO&E-COLOR! 


room — of blue to match the bowl, with silver lace, 
and a girdle of pink brocade. 

Alone in her room with Polly-Ann to watch pro¬ 
ceedings, she got out the lovely gown. 

“ Oh, I do want to be pretty, Polly-Ann,” she 
said with mueh wistfulness. 

Yet when she was all hooked and snapped into it, 
she surveyed herself with some dissatisfaction in 
the mirror. 

“ Why not? ” she asked the mirror. “ Why 
shouldn’t I wear it ? ” 

The mirror gave back a vision of beauty — but 
behind that vision in the depths of limitless space 
Jean’s eyes discerned something which made her 
change her gown. Quite soberly she got herself into 
a little nun’s frock of gray with collars and cuffs 
of transparent white, and above it all was the glory 
of her crinkled hair. 

Neither then nor afterwards could she analyze 
her reasons for the change. Perhaps sub-eon- 
sciously she was perceiving that this meeting with 
Derry Drake was to be a serious and stupendous 
occasion. Throughout the world the emotions of 
men and women were being quickened to a pace 
set by a mighty conflict. Never again would Jean 
McKenzie laugh or cry over little things. She 
would laugh and cry, of course, but back of it all 
would be that sense of the world’s travail and 
117 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


tragedy, made personal by her own part in it 

Julia, the second maid, was instructed to show 
Mr. Drake into the little drawing room. Jean 
came down early with her knitting, and sat on the 
deep-rose Davenport. The curtains were not 
drawn. There was always the chance of a sunset 
view. Julia was to turn on the light when she 
brought in the tea. 

There was the whir of a bell, the murmur of 
voices. Jean sat tense. Then as her caller en¬ 
tered, she got somewhat shakily on her feet. 

But the man in the door was not Derry Drake! 

In his intrusive and impertinent green, pinched-in 
as to waist, and puffed-out as to trousers, his cheeks 
red with the cold, his brown eyes bright with eager¬ 
ness, Ralph Witherspoon stood on the threshold. 

“ Of all the good luck,” he said, “ to find you 
in.” 

She shook hands with him and sat down. 

“ I thought you had gone back to Bay Shore. 
You said yesterday you were going.” 

“ I got my orders in the nick of time. We are to 
go to Key West. I am to join the others on the 
way down.” 

“ How soon? ” 

He sat at the other end of the davenport. “ In 
three days, and anything can happen in three days.” 

He moved closer. She had a sense of panic. 
Was he going to propose to her again, in this room 
118 


ROSE-COLOR! 

which she had set aside so sacredly for Derry 
Drake? 

“ Won’t you have some tea? ” she asked, desper¬ 
ately. “ I’ll have Julia bring it in.” 

“ I’d rather talk.” 

But she had it brought, and Julia, wheeling in the 
tea-cart, offered a moment’s reprieye. And Ralph 
ate the Lady-bread-and-butter, and the little pound 
cakes with the nuts and white frosting which had 
been meant for Derry, and then he walked around 
the tea-cart and took her hand, and for the seventh 
time since he had met her he asked her to marry 
him. 

^ But I don’t love you.” She was almost in tears. 

* You don’t know what love is — I’ll teach you.” 

“ I don’t want to be taught.” 

a You don’t know what it means to be taught — 99 

.Jean had a stifling sense as of some great green 
$,ree bending down to crush her. She put out her 
hand to push it away. 

In the silence a bell whirred—. 

Derry Drake, ushered in by Julia, saw the room 
in the rosy glow of the lamp. He saw Ralph 
Witherspoon towering insolently in his aviator’s 
green. He saw Jean, blushing and perturbed. 
The scene struck cold against the heat of his an¬ 
ticipation. 

He sat down in one of the rose-colored chairs, and 
Julia brought more tea for him, more Ladyhread- 
119 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

a,ird-butter, more pound cakes with nuts and frost¬ 
ing. 

Ralph was frankly curious. He was also frankly 
jealous. He was aware that Derry had met Jean 
for the first time at his mother’s dinner dance. 
And Derry’s millions were formidable. It did not 
occur to Ralph that Derry, without his millions, 
was formidable. Ralph’s idea of a man's attract¬ 
iveness for women was founded on his belief in 
their admiration of good looks, and their liking 
for the possession of, as he would himself have ex¬ 
pressed it, “ plenty of pep ” and “ go.” From 
Ralph’s point of view Derry Drake was not hand¬ 
some, and he was utterly unaware that back of 
Derry's silver-blond slenderness and apparent lan¬ 
guidness were banked fires which could moi"' than 
match his own. 

And there was this, too, of which he was uncon 
scions, that Derry’s millions meant nothing to 
Jean. Had he remained the shabby ^on of the 
shabby old man in the Toy Shop, her heart would 
still have followed him. 

So, fatuously hopeful, Ralph stayed. He stayed 
until five, until half-past five. Until a quarter of six. 

And he talked of the glories of war! 

Derry grew restless. As he sat in the rose-col¬ 
ored chair, he fingered a tassel which caught back 
one of the curtains of the wide window. It was a 
120 


ROSE-COLOR! 


silk tassel, and he pulled at one strand of it until it 
was flossy and frayed. He was unconscious of his 
work of destruction, unconscious that Jean’s eyes, 
lifted now and then from her knitting, noted his 
fingers weaving in and out of the rosy strands. 

Ralph talked on. With seeming modesty he 
spoke of the feats of other men, yet none the less it 
was Ralph they saw, poised like a bird at incredible 
heights, looping the loop, fearless, splendid — beat* 
ing the air with strong wings. 

Six o’clock, and at last Ralph rose. Even then 
he hesitated and hung back, as if he expected that 
Derry might go with him. But Derry, stiff and 
straight beside the rose-colored chair, bade him fare¬ 
well! 

And now Derry was alone with Jean! 

They found themselves standing close together in 
front of the fire. The garment of coldness and of 
languor which had seemed to enshroud Derry had 
dropped from him. The smile which he gave Jean 
was like warm wine in her veins. 

“ Well — ?” 

“ I asked you to come — to say — that I am — 
sorry —,” her voice breaking. “ Daddy told me 
that he knew why — you couldn’t fight—” 

“ I didn’t intend that he should tell.” 

“He didn’t,” eagerly, “not your reasons. He 
said it was a — confidence, and he couldn’t break 
121 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


his word. But lie knew that you were brave. 
That the things the world is saying are all wrong. 
Oh, I ought to go down on my knees.” 

Her face was white, her eyes deep w*ells of tears. 

u It is I,” he said, very low, “ who should be on 
my knees — do you know what it means to me to 
have you tell me this? ” 

“ I wasn’t sure that I ought to write. To some 
men I couldn’t have written —” 

His face lighted. “ When your note came — I 
can't tell you what it meant to me. I shouldn’t 
like to think of what this day would have been for 
me if you had not written. Everybody is calling 
me — a coward. You know that. You heard 
Witherspoon just now pitying me, not in words, but 
his manner.” 

“ Oh, Ralph,” how easily she disposed of him. 
" Ralph crows, like a — rooster.” 

They looked at each other and tried to la<igh. 
But they were not laughing in their hearts. 

He lifted her hand and kissed it — then he stood 
well away from her, anchoring himself again to the 
silken tassel. “ Now that you know a part,” he 
said, from that safe distance, “ I’d like to tell you 
all of it, if I may.” 

As he talked her fingers were busy with her knit¬ 
ting, but there came moments when she laid it down 
and looked up at him with eyes that mirrored his 
own earnestness. 


122 


ROSE-COLOR! 


“ It — it hasn’t been easy,” he said in conclusion, 
a but — but if you will be my friend, nothing will 
be hard.” 

She tried to speak — was shaken as if by a strong 
wind, and her knitting went up as a shield. 

“ My dear, you are crying,” he said, and was on 
his knees beside her. 

And now they were caught in the tide of that 
mighty wave which was sweeping the world! 

When at last she steadied herself, he was again 
anchored to the rose-colored tassel. 

“ You — you must forgive me — but — it has 
been so good to talk it out — to some one — who 
cared. I had never dreamed until that night in 
the Toy Shop of anybody — like you. Of any¬ 
body so — adorable. When your note came this 
morning, I couldn’t believe it. But now I know it 
is true. And that night of Cinderella you were so 
— heavenly.” 

It was a good thing that Miss Emily came in at 
that moment — for his eloquence was a burning 
flood, and Jean was swept up and on with it. 

The entrance of Emily, strictly tailored and prac¬ 
tical, gave them pause. 

“ You remember Mr. Drake, don’t you, Emily? ” 

Emily did, of course. But she had not expected 
to see him here. She held out her hand. “ I re¬ 
member that he was coming back for more of your 
Lovely Dreams.” 


123 


TEE TIE SOLDIER 


“I want all of lier dreams,” said Derry, and 
something in the way that he said it took Miss 
Emily’s breath away. “ Please don’t sell them to 
anyone else. You have a wholesale order from 
me.” 

Miss Emily looked from one to the other. She 
was conscious of something which touched the 
stars — something which all her life she had 
missed, something which belongs to youth and 
ecstasy. 

“ Wholesale orders are not in my line,” she said. 
“ You can settle that with Jean.” 

She surveyed the tea-wagon. “ I’m starved. 
And if I eat I shall spoil my dinner.” 

u I can ring for hot water, Emily, and there are 
more of the pound cakes.” 

“ My dear, no. I must go upstairs and dress. 
Your father sent for my bag, and Julia says it is 
in my room.” 

She bade Derry a cheerful good-bye, and left 
them alone. 

“ I must go, too,” said Derry, and took Jean’s 
hand. He stood looking down at her. “ May I 
come tomorrow? ” 

“ Oh — yes —” 

“ There’s one thing that I should like more than 
anything, if we could go to church together — to be 
Thankful that — that we’ve found each other —” 

Tears in the shining eyes! 

124 


ROSE-COLOR! 


(( Why are you crying? ” 

66 Because it is so — sweet.” 

“ Then you’ll go? ” 

“ I’d love it.” 

He dropped her hand and got away. She was 
little and young, so divinely innocent. He felt that 
he must not take unfair advantage of that mood of 
exaltation. 

He drove straight downtown and ordered dowers 
for her. Remembering the nun’s dress, he sent 
violets in a gray basket, with a knot on the handle 
of heavenly blue. 

The flowers came while Jean was at dinner. 
Emily was in Hilda’s place, a quiet contrast in her 
slenderness and modest black to Hilda’s opulence. 
Dr. McKenzie had not had time to dress. 

“ I am so busy, Emily.” 

“ But you love the busy-ness, don’t you? I can’t 
imagine you without the hours crammed full.” 

“ Just now I wish that I could push it away as 
Richards pushed it —” 

Jean looked up. “ But Dr. Richards went to 
France, Daddy.” 

“ I envy him.” 

“ Oh, do you — ? ” Then her flowers came, and 
she forgot everything else. 

The Doctor whistled as Julia set the basket in 
front of Jean. “ Ralph is generous.” 

Jean had opened the attached envelope and w as 
125 


ROSE-COLOR! 


reading a card. A wave of self-conscious color 
swept oyer her cheeks. “ Ralph didn’t send them. 
It — it was Derry Drake.” 

“ Drake? How did that happen? ” 

“ He was here this afternoon for tea, and Ralph, 
and Emily — only Emily was late, and the tea was 
cold —” 

“ So you’ve made up? ” 

“ We didn’t have to make up much, Daddy, did 
we?” mendaciously. 

Miss Emily came to the rescue. “ He seems very 
nice.” 

“ Splendid fellow. But I am not sure that I 
want him sending flowers to my daughter. I don’t 
want anyone sending flowers to her.” 

Miss Emily took him up sharply. “ That’s your 
selfishness. Life has always been a garden where 
you have wandered at will. And now you want to 
shut the gate of that garden against your daugh¬ 
ter.” 

“ Well, there are flowers that I shouldn’t care to 
have her pluck.” 

“ Don’t you know her well enough to understand 
that she’ll pluck only the little lovely blooms? ” 

His eyes rested on Jean’s absorbed face. “ Yes, 
thank God. And thank you, too, for saying it, 
Emily.” 

After dinner they sat in the library. Doctor 
McKenzie on one side of the fire with his cigar, 
126 


ROSE COLOR! 


Emily on the other side with her knitting. Jean 
between them in a low chair, a knot of Derry’s vio¬ 
lets fragrant against the gray of her gown, her 
fingers idle. 

“ Why aren’t you knitting? ” the Doctor asked. 

“ I don’t have to set a good example to Emily.” 

“ And you do to Hilda? ” He threw back his 
head and laughed. 

“ You needn’t laugh. Isn’t it comfy with 
Emily? ” 

“ It is.” He glanced at the slender black figure. 
He was still feeling the fineness of the thing she 
had said about Jean. “ But when she is here I am 
jealous.” 

“ Oh, Daddy.” 

“ And I am never jealous of Hilda. If you had 
Emily all the time you’d love her better than you do 
me.” 

He chuckled at their hot eyes. “ If you are teas= 
ing,” Jean told him, “ I’ll forgive you. But Emily 
won’t, will you, Emily?” 

“ No.” Emily’s voice was gay, and he liked the 
color in her cheeks. “ He doesn’t deserve to be 
forgiven. Some day he is going to be devoured by 
a green-eyed monster, like a bad little boy in a 
Sunday School story.” 

Her needles clicked, and her eyes sparkled. 
There was no doubt that there was a sprightliness 
about Emily that was stimulating. 

127 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ But one’s only daughter, Emily. Isn’t jealousy 
pardonable? ” 

“ Not in you.” 

« Why not? ” 

“ Well,” with obvious reluctance, “ you’re too big 
for it.” 

“ Oh,” he was more pleased than he was willing 
to admit, “ did you hear that, Jean? ” 

But Jean, having drifted away from them, came 
back with, “ I am going to church with him tomor¬ 
row.” 

“ Him? Whom?” 

“ Derry Drake, Daddy, and may I bring him home 
to dinner? ” 

“ Do you think a man like that goes begging for 
invitations? He has probably been asked to a 
dozen places to eat his turkey.” 

“ He can’t eat it at a dozen places, Daddy. And 
anyhow I should like to ask him. I — I think he is 
lonely —” 

“ A man with millions is never lonely.” 

She did not attempt to argue. She felt that her 
father could not possibly grasp the truth about 
Derry Drake. Her own understanding of his need 
had been a blinding, whirling revelation. He had 
said, “ I wanted some one —who cared—.” Not 
for a moment since then had the world been real to 
her. She had seemed in the center of a golden- 
lighted sphere, where Derry’s voice spoke to her, 
128 


ROSE-CO LOR! 


where Derry’s smile warmed her, where Derry, a 
silver-crested knight, knelt at her feet. 

Julia came in to say that Miss Jean was wanted 
at the telephone. 

Miraculously Derry’s voice came over the wire. 
Was she going to the dance at the Willard? The 
one for the benefit of the Eye and Ear Hospital? 
The President and his wife would be there — the 
only ball they had attended this season — every¬ 
body would be there. Could he come for Jean and 
her father? And he’d bring Drusilla and Marion 
Gray. She knew Drusilla? 

Jean on tiptoe. Oh, yes. But she was not sure 
about her father. 

“ But you — you — ? ” 

“ I’ll ask.” 

She flew on winged feet and explained excitedly. 

“ Tonight? Tonight, Jean? ” 

“ Yes, Daddy.” 

“ But what time is it? ” 

“ Only ten. He’ll come at eleven —■” 

“ But you can’t leave Emily alone, dear.” 

“ Emily won’t mind — darling — will you. 
Emily? ” 

“ Of course not. I am often alone.” 

It was said quietly, without bitterness, but Dr. 
McKenzie was quite suddenly and unreasonably 
moved by the thought of all that Emily had missed. 
He felt it utterly unfair that she should sit alone 
129 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


by an empty hearth while he and Jean frivolled. 
He had never thought of Hilda by an empty hearth 
— and she had been often alone — but there was 
this which made the difference, he would not have 
asked Hilda to meet his daughter’s friends. She 
had her place in his household, but it was not the 
place which Emily filled. 

Yet he missed her. He missed her blond pic¬ 
turesqueness at the dinner table, her trim whiteness 
as she served him in his office. 

He came back to the question of Emily. “ You 
can tell Drake we will go, if Emily can accompany 

US.” 

“ But, Doctor, I’d rather not.” 

“ Why not? ” 

“ I’m not included in the invitation.” 

“ Don’t be self-conscious.” 

“ And I haven’t anything to wear.” 

“ You never looked better than you do at this 
moment. And Jean can get you that scarf of her 
mother’s with the jet and spangles.” 

“ The peacocky one — oh, yes, Daddy.” Jean 
danced back to the telephone. 

Derry was delighted to include Miss Bridges. 
“ Bring a dozen if you wish.” 

“ I don’t want a dozen. I want just Daddy and 
Emily.” 

“ And me? ” 

“ Of course — silly —” 

130 


ROSE-COLOR! 

Laughter singing along the wire. “ May I come 
now? ” 

“ I have to change my dress.” 

“ In an hour, then? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“I can’t really believe that we are going — to 
gether! ” 

“ Together —” 


131 


CHAPTEK X 


A MAN WITH MONEY 

White and silver for Jean, the peaeocky scarf 
making Emily shine with the best of them, Dr. Mc¬ 
Kenzie called away at the last moment, and prom¬ 
ising to join them later; Derry catching his breath 
when he saw his violets among Jean’s laces; Dru- 
silla wondering a little at this transfigured Derry; 
Marion Gray settling down to the comfort of a 
chat with Emily — what had these to do with a Tin 
Soldier on a shelf? 

“ How is your father, Derry? ” 

u Better, Drusilla. He has a fine nurse. Dr. 
McKenzie sent her.” 

“ And I have Emily,” Jean sang from the corner 
of the big ear where Derry had her penned in, with 
the fragrance of her violets sweeping over him as 
he sat next to her. “I want Emily always, but 
Daddy has to have a nurse in the office, and Emily 
won’t give up her toys. And in the meantime 
Hilda and I are ready to scratch each other’s eyes 
out. Please keep her as long as you can on your 
father’s case, Mr. Drake.” 

“ Say ‘ Derry,’ ” he commanded under cover of 
the light laughter of the women. 

“ Not before — everybody —” 

132 


A MAN WITH MONEY 


66 Whisper it, then.” 

“ Derry, Derry.” 

His pulses pounded. During the rest of the 
driye, he spoke to his other guests and seemed to 
listen, but he heard nothing — nothing but the 
whisper of that beloved voice. 

As Derry had said, all the world of Washington 
was at the ball. The President and his wife in a 
flag-draped box, she in black with a turquoise fan* 
he towering a little above her, more than President 
in these autocratic days of war. They looked down 
on men in the uniforms of the battling world — 
Scot and Briton and Gaul — in plaid and khaki and 
horizon blue— 

They looked dow T n on women knitting. 

Mrs. Witherspoon and a party of young people 
sat in a box adjoining Derry’s. Ralph was there 
and Alma Drew r , and Alma w 7 as more than ever 
lovely in gold-embroidered tulle. 

Ralph knew what had happened wiien he saw 
Jean dancing with Derry. There w T as no mistak¬ 
ing the soft raptures of the youthful pair. In the 
days to come Ralph was to suffer wounds, but none 
to tear his heart like this. And so when he danced 
with Jean a little later he did not spare her. 

“ A man with money always gets what he wants.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean.” 

“ X think you do. You are going to marry Derry 
Drake.” 


133 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


She shrank at this. She had in her meetings 
with Derry never looked beyond the bliss of the 
moment. To have Ralph’s rough fingers tearing at 
the veil of her future was revolting. 

She breathed quickly. “ I shan’t dance with you 9 
if you speak of it again.” 

“ You shall dance with me/’ grimly, “this mo¬ 
ment is my own —” 

She was like wax in his strong arms. “ Oh, 
how dare you.” She was cold with anger. “ I 
want to stop.” 

“ And I could dance forever. That’s the irony of 
it — that I cannot make you. But if I had Drake’s 
money, I’d make you.” 

“ Do you think it is his money? ” 

“ Perhaps not. But the world will think it.” 

“ If — if he wanted me, I’d marry him if he were 
-a beggar in the streets.” 

“ Has it gone as far as that? But you wouldn’t 
marry a beggar. A troubadour beneath your bal¬ 
cony, yes. But not a beggar. You’d want him 
silken and blond and singing, and staying at home 
while other men fought —” 

She stopped at once. “ If you knew what you 
were talking about, I’d never speak to you again. 
But because I was fool enough once to believe that 
Derry Drake was a coward, I am going to forgive 
you. But I shall not dance with you again, 
ever —” 


134 


A MAN WITH MONEY 


Making her way back alone to the box, she saw 
with a throb of relief that her father had joined 
Emily and Marion Gray. 

He uttered a quick exclamation as she came up, 
" What’s the matter, daughter? ” 

Her throat was dry. “ I can’t tell you now — 
there are too many people. It was Ralph. I hate 
him, Daddy.” 

“ My dear —” 

“ I do.” 

“ But why? ” 

“ Please, I don’t want to talk about it — wait 
until we get home.” 

Looking out over the heads of the swaying crowd,, 
she saw that Derry was dancing with Alma Drew. 
And it was Alma who had said at the Witherspoon 
dinner, “ Everybody will forgive a man with 
money.” 

And that was what Ralph had thought of her, 
that she was like Alma — that money could buy 
her — that she would sell the honor of her country 
for gold—. 

But worse than any hurt of her own was the hurt 
of the thing for Derry. Ralph Witherspoon had 
dared to point a finger of scorn at him — other 
people had dared — 

She suffered intensely, not as a child, but as a 
woman. 

Alma, out on the floor, was saying to Derry, “ I 
135 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


saw you dancing with Jean McKenzie. She’s a 
quaint little duck.” 

“ Not a duck, Alma,” he was smiling, “ a white 
dove — or a silver swan.” The look that he sent 
across the room to Jean was a revelation. 

Like Ralph, she grew hateful. “ So that’s it? 
“ Well, a man with money can get anything.” 

He had no anger for her. Jean might blaze in 
his defense, but his own fires were not to be fanned 
by any words of Alma Drew. If he lost his for¬ 
tune, Jean would still care for him. It was fore¬ 
ordained, as fixed as the stars. 

So he went back to her, and when she saw him 
eoming, the burden of her distress fell from her. 
The world became once more hers and Derry’s, with 
everybody else shut out. When they had supper 
with the Witherspoon party joining them, and 
Ralph palely repentant beside her, she even, to the 
utter bewilderment of her father, smiled at him, 
and talked as if their quarrel had never been. 

Drusilla watched her with more than a tinge of 
envy. She was aware that her own vivid charm 
was shadowed and eclipsed by the white flame of 
Jean’s youth and innocence. “ And he loves her,” 
she thought with a tug of her heartstrings; “he 
loves her, and there’ll never be anything like it for 
him again.” 

She sat rather silently between Captain Hewes 
and Dr. McKenzie. Dr. McKenzie had always ad- 
136 


A MAN WITH MONEY 


mired Drusilla, but tonight his attention was rather 
more than usual fixed upon her by a remark which 
Captain Hewes had made when the two men had 
stood alone together watching the dancers. “ I 
have seen very little of American women — but to 
me Drusilla Gray seems the supreme type.” 

“ She is very attractive.” 

“ She is more than that. She is inspiring, the 
embodiment of your best ideals. When she sings 
one wonders that all men have not fought for democ¬ 
racy.” 

That was something to say of a woman. Doctor 
McKenzie wondered if it could be said of his own 
daughter. Set side by side with Drusilla, Jean 
seemed a childish creature, unstable, swayed by 
the emotion of the moment. Yet her fire matched 
Drusilla’s, her dreams outran Drusilla’s dreams. 

Two officers passed the table. 

“ How any man can keep out of it,” Drusilla 
said. “ Some day I shall put on a uniform and 
pass for a boy —” 

“ Why not go over as you are? ” 

“ They won’t let me now. But some day they 
will. I can drive a car — there ought to be a place 
for me.” 

“ There is one for me,” he said, “ and my decision 
must be made tonight. They are asking me to head 
a hospital staff in France. A letter came this 
morning, and I’ve got to answer it.” 

137 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Her eyes went to the flame-white maiden on the 
other side of the table. “ What does Jean say? ” 

“ I haven’t asked her. She wouldn’t keep me 
back. But I am all she has, and it would hurt.” 

“ It would hurt. But you are not all that she 
has — you might as well try to sweep back the sea 
as to stop what is going on over there. I have been 
sitting here green with envy. Oh, if love might 
only come to me like that.” 

“ Like what? ” 

“ Heaven-sent — never a doubt, never a specula¬ 
tion; just knowing and believing — souls stripped 
bare of all pretence.” 

How splendid she was — how beautiful! He 
bent down to her. “Why shouldn’t it come to 
you? ” 

“ Men don’t love me that way. They admire and 
respect and then love. But Jean? She’s a moon 
maiden, luring them to — madness.” She smiled 
up at him. 

“ Captain Hewes says you are the supreme type 
— the perfect American.” 

“ Yes, but he thinks of me as a type. Some day 
perhaps he will think of me as a woman.” 

She brought the conversation back to Jean. 
“You need not let the thought of her loneliness 
trouble you.” 

“ You think then that I am going to lose her? ” 

“ You have lost her already.” 

138 


A MAN WITH MONEY 


Sparks burned in the Doctor’s eyes. “I don’t 
believe it. She has known him a few days — and 
I’ve given her my whole life.” 

“ ‘ Forsaking all others/ ” murmured Drusilla. 

“ Yet she loves me.” 

“ It isn’t that she loves you less — she loves him 
more.” 

“ Don’t,” he lifted his hand. “ I am not sure 
that I can stand it.” 

“It makes your way clear. That’s why I have 
said it. There will be nothing now to keep you 
back from France.” 

Once upon a time she had said to Derry, “ I can 
feel things, and I can make others feel.” She had, 
perhaps, tonight, been a little cruel, but she had 
been cruel with a purpose. 

All the way home Doctor McKenzie was very 
silent. When he kissed his daughter before she 
went upstairs, he held her close and smoothed her 
hair, but not a word did he say of the thing which 
had come to him. 

He asked Emily, however, to wait a moment. “ I 
have a letter to answer. I should like your ad¬ 
vice.” 

Wondering a little, she sat down by the fire. The 
peacocky scarf gave out glittering lights of blue and 
green. She w 7 as tired and there were shadows un¬ 
der her eyes. 

He came at once to his proposition. “I am 
139 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


thinking of going to France, Emily. If I do, can 
you stay with Jean? ” 

She turned her startled gaze upon him. “ To 
France? Why?” 

He told her. “ They have been writing to me for 
weeks, and now the moment for my decision has 
come. I haven’t said anything to Jean. But she 
won’t keep me back. You know how she feels. 
But unless you can come, I can’t leave her.” 

(i I should have to be all day in my shop.” 

“ I know, but you could be here in the evening 
and at night, and she could, of course, be with you 
in the shop, she likes that — and it would keep her 
from brooding. Or, if you will give up the shop, I 
should like to make it financially possible for you, 
Emily.” 

She shook her head. “ No. You will be coming 
back, and then my occupation would be gone.” 
She hesitated. “ But if I come — what of Hilda? ” 

“ She may decide to go over, too, as a nurse. 
We work well together.” 

She was silent, searching for the words which 
she felt that she ought to say. So that was it? 
They would go together, and the tongues of the 
world would wag. And Hilda would know that 
they were wagging, and would not care. But he, 
with his mind on bigger things, would never know, 
and would blunder unseeing into the net which 
was set for him. She felt that she ought to warn 
140 


A MAN WITH MONEY 


him, that the good friendship which existed be¬ 
tween them demanded it. Yet it w T as a hard thing 
to say, and she hated it. So the moment passed. 

it was he who spoke first — of Jean and Derry. 
u What do you think of it, Emily? ” 

“ He is very much in love with her.” 

“ And Jean? ” 

“ Oh, I think you know. You saw her tonight.” 
He felt a sudden sense of age and loneliness. 
u She won’t miss me, then? ” 

“ Do you think that anyone could make up to 
your little Jean for the loss of her father? ” 

He covered his face with his hand. “ You are 
feeling it like that? ” she asked, gently. 

“ Yes. She is all I have, Emily. And I am jeal¬ 
ous — desperately — desperately.” 

She searched for words to comfort him, and at 
last they came. “ She will be very proud of her 
Daddy in France.” 

“ Do you think she will? ” 

“ I know it.” 

“ And yet — I am not really w T orthy of all that 
she gives —” 

She leaned forward, her white hands in her lap. 
Jean’s comment echoed once more in his ears. “ I 
like Emily’s hands much better than Hilda’s.” 
They seemed, indeed, to represent all that was lovely 
in Emily, her refinement, her firmness, her gentle 
spirit. 


141 


TEE TIE SOLDIER 


“Bruce,” she said — she rarely called him that 
—“ your dear wife would never have loved you if 
you hadn’t been worthy of love.” 

“ I need her — to hold me to my best.” 

“ Hold yourself to it, Bruce —” She stood up. 
“ I must go to bed, and so must you. We have 
busy days before us.” 

He spoke impulsively. “ You are a good woman, 
Emily — there’s no one in the world that I would 
trust to stay with Jean but you.” 

She smiled a little wistfully as she went upstairs. 
She had perhaps comforted him, but she had left 
unsaid the words she should have spoken. “ You 
must not take Hilda with you. If you take her 
with you, will your Jean be proud of her Daddy in 
France? ” 


143 


CHAPTEK XI 


HILDA WEARS A CROWN 

At two o’clock on Thanksgiving morning the 
light burned low in the General’s room. Hilda, 
wide awake, was reading. Derry stopped at the 
door. 

She rose at once and went to him. 

“ Is he all right, Miss Merritt? ” 

“ Yes. He’s sound asleep.” 

“ Then you think he’s better? ” 

“ Much better.” 

“ Good. I hope you can stay on the case. Dr. 
McKenzie says it is all because of your splendid 
care of him. I just left McKenzie, by the way. I 
took him and his daughter to the ball at the Wil¬ 
lard. We had a corking time.” 

Her eyes saw a change in him. This was not the 
listless Derry with whom she had talked the day 
before — here were flushed cheeks and shining eyes 
— gay youth and gladness —. 

“ A corking time,” Derry reiterated. “ The Pres¬ 
ident was there, and his wife — and we danced a 
lot — and —” he caught himself up. “ Well, good¬ 
night, Miss Merritt.” 


143 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


“ Good-night.” She went back to the shadowed 
room. 

Bronson, following Derry, came back in a half 
hour with a dry, “ Is there anything I can do for 
you, Miss Merritt? ” and then the house was still. 

And now Hilda was alone with the old man in 
the lacquered bed. There would be no interrup¬ 
tions until morning. It was the moment for which 
she had waited ever since the hour when the Gen* 
eral had sent her into his wife's room for a minia¬ 
ture of Derry, which was locked in the safe. 

The suite which had belonged to Mrs. Drake con¬ 
sisted of three rooms — a sitting room, a bedroom 
and a sun-parlor which had been Derry’s nursery. 
Nothing had been changed since her death. Every 
day a maid cleaned and dusted, and at certain sea¬ 
sons the clothes in the presses were brushed and 
aired and put back again. In a little safe in the 
wall were jewels, and the key was on the General’s 
ring. He had given the key to Hilda when he had 
sent her for the miniature. His fever had been 
high, and he had not been quite himself. Even a 
nurse with a finer sense of honor might have argued, 
however, that her patient must be obeyed. So she 
knew now where his treasure was kept — behind a 
Chinese scroll, which when rolled uo revealed the 
panel which hid the safe. 

Hilda had never worn a jewel of value in her 
life. She possessed, it is true, a few trinkets, a 
144 


HILDA WEARS A CROWN 


gold ring with her monogram engraved in it, a 
string of It Oman pearls, and a plain wrist watch. 
But such brilliance as that which met her startled 
eyes when she had first looked into the safe was 
beyond anything conceived by her rather limited 
imagination. 

She opened the door between the rooms quietly, 
and went in, leaving a crack that she might hear 
any movement on the part of her patient. She 
crossed the sitting room in the dark. Beaching the 
bedroom she pulled the chain of the lamp, then set 
a screen to hide any ray of light which might 
escape. 

The room was furnished with a feeling for deli¬ 
cate color-—gold and ivory — Japanese prints — 
pale silks and crepes — a bit of jade —a cabinet 
inlaid with mother-of-pearl. But Hilda’s eyes were 
not for these. Indeed, she knew nothing of their 
value, nothing, indeed, of the value of the Chinese 
scroll which so effectually hid the panel in the wall. 

Within the safe was a large velvet box, and sev¬ 
eral smaller ones. It was from the big box that 
Hilda had taken the miniature, and it contained 
also the crown which she yearned to wear. 

She called it a crown! It was a tiara of dia¬ 
monds, peaked up to a point in front. There was, 
also, the wide collar of pearls with the diamond 
slides which had been worn by the painted lady on 
the stairs. In the smaller boxes were more pearls, 
145 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


long strings of them; sapphires like a midnight sky, 
opals, fire in a mist; rubies, emeralds—. They 
should have been locked in a vault at the General’s 
bank, but he had wanted nothing taken away, noth¬ 
ing disturbed. Yet with that touch of fever upon 
him he had given the key to Hilda. 

She took off her cap and turned in the neck of 
her white linen gown. The pearl collar was a bit 
small for her, but she managed to snap the three 
slides. She set the sparkling circlet on her head. 

Then she stood back and surveyed herself in the 
oval mirror! 

Gone was the Hilda Merritt whom she had 
known, and in her place was a queen with a crown! 
She smiled at her reflection and nodded. For once 
she was swayed from her stillness and stolidity. 
She loaded her long hands with rings, and held 
them to her cheeks; then, struck by the contrast of 
her white linen sleeve, she rummaged in one of the 
big closets, and threw on the bed a drift of exqui¬ 
site apparel. 

The gowns were all too small for her, but there 
was a cloak of velvet and ermine. The General’s 
wife had worn it to the White House dinner over 
the gown in which she had been painted. Hilda 
drew the cloak about her shoulders, and laughed 
noiselessly. She could look like this, and she had 
never known it! But now that she knew —! 

There was the soft click of the telephone in the 
146 


HILDA WEARS A CROWN 


General’s room. Fearful lest the sound should 
waken her patient, she tore off the tiara, turned up 
the neck of her dress to hide the shining collar, 
dropped the cloak, pulled the chain of the lamp, 
then sped breathless to the shadowed room. 

Dr. McKenzie was at the other end of the wire. 

“ I am coming over, Hilda.” 

“You need not,”—her voice was a whisper — 
“ he is sound asleep.” 

“ I want to see you for a moment. It is very im¬ 
portant.” 

She hesitated. “ It is very late.” 

“ Has young Drake arrived ? ” 

“ Yes. He has gone to bed.” 

“ I’ll be there in ten minutes. You can meet me 
downstairs.” 

The General stirred. “ Miss Merritt.” 

She hung up the receiver and went to him at once. 

“ Has the Doctor come? ” 

“ No. But he has just telephoned. He will be 
here shortly.” 

His sick old eyes surveyed her. “I never saw 
you before without your cap—” 

“No.” 

“ You are very pretty.” 

f She smiled down at him. “ It is nice of you to 
say it.” 

“ Don’t wear yoor cap again. I don’t like uni¬ 
forms for women.” 


14T 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ But when I am on duty I must wear it. You 
know enough of discipline to understand that I 
must.” 

“Yes. But women don’t need discipline, God 
bless ’em.” His old eyes twinkled. “Has Derry 
come in? ” 

“ Yes, and gone to bed. He asked after you.” 

“ And it’s Thanksgiving morning? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“And no turkey for me. But you’ll get me a 
glass of wine? ” 

“ I’m not sure. I’ll ask the Doctor.” 

She sat beside him until he again dozed. Then 
made her way once more to the room where the 
lovely gowns were piled high on the bed, and the 
jewels sparkled on the dressing-table. Quickly and 
noiselessly she put them in place. Then she tried 
to take off the collar, but the snaps held. She 
tugged and pressed, but with no result. She was 
afraid to pull too hard lest she break the snaps. 

At last she was forced to button the collar of her 
linen gown above it. She smoothed her hair and 
put oh her cap. The room as she surveyed it 
showed no sign of her occupation. She put out the 
light and returned to her patient. 

She was at the front door to let the Doctor in 
when he arrived. 

“ The General is awake, and wants to see you. 
I’ll come down when you go, and we can talk.” 

148 


HILDA WEARS A CROWE 


As they entered the shadowed room together, the 
old man opened his eyes. “ Hello, McKenzie. 
Nurse, what made you put on your cap? I don’t 
like it.” 

“ I shouldn’t dare leave it off when the Doctor’s 
here.” 

“ Does she have to take your orders or mine, Mc¬ 
Kenzie? ” 

“ Mine,” smiling; “ that's one of the perquisites 
of my profession, to have all the nurses under my 
thumb.” 

“ Don’t you try to please your patients? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then tell her to leave off her cap.” 

He began to cough. The Doctor bent over him. 
Hilda helped to make the old man comfortable. 

When at last the General drifted into slumber, 
the two went down together. The hall clock 
pointed to four. 

They stood at the foot of the great stairway. 
From the landing the painted lady smiled at them. 

“ Hilda, I am going to France.” 

She expressed no surprise. “ When did you 
make up your mind? ” 

“ In a sense it is not made up. I think I am 
waiting for you to confirm my decision. They 
want me at the head of a hospital staff, to deal with 
cases of shock. I should like to have you in charge 
of my nurses.” 


149 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


She meditated. “ I am not sure that I care to go.” 

He showed his surprise. “ I understood that if 
I went, you would go —” 

“ I don’t think I said that.” 

“ Perhaps not. But it didn’t occur to me that 
you would back out.” His voice showed the irrita¬ 
tion of a man balked in the thing he wants. 

“ I haven’t backed out. I don’t know what I 
want to do. I have to think it over.” 

He ran his fingers through his hair. “ What 
made you change your mind? ” 

“ I like to be comfortable. And it isn’t comfort¬ 
able over there.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, Hilda — don’t make your¬ 
self out as selfish as that.” 

“ I am not any more selfish than other people, 
but I am honest. I don’t go around deceiving my¬ 
self with the idea that if I go I shall be doing 
something wonderful. But you — that’s why you 
are going — to be wonderful in your own eyes, and 
Jean’s eyes and in the eyes of the world.” 

“ I don’t think it is that,” he said soberly. “ I 
hope not. I have tried to see straight. I some¬ 
times think it is you who are seeing crooked, Hilda.” 

They faced each other squarely. Her chin was 
slightly lifted. He caught the gleam of jewels at 
her throat. 

“ Hilda,” he said sharply, “ where did you get 
those diamonds? ” 


150 


HILDA WEARS A CROWN 


Her hand flew up to them. She was not in the 
least disconcerted. “ I might as well tell you 
They belonged to the Generals wife. I didn’t have 
anything to do tonight, so I've been trying them 
on. There isn’t any harm in that, is there? ” 

“It’s rather dangerous,” slowly; “why didn’t 
you take the collar off? ” 

“The snap caught just as you came, and I 
couldn’t unfasten it.” 

“ Did the General know that you tried them on? ” 

“ Of course not. He was asleep.” 

“ Bend your head down, and let me look at the 
snap.” 

She leaned towards him, bringing her neck 
against his hand. The little curls of bright hair 
sprang up towards his fingers as he worked at the 
obstinate catch. But he did his work steadily, and 
as she straightened up again, he dropped the collar 
into her hand. 

“ If you will take my advice,” he said, “ you won’t 
do a thing like that again. People might not un¬ 
derstand.” 

“ You mean that they might think I had stolen it? 
I am not a thief, Doctor —” 

“ Of course not. Do you think you have to tell 
me that? And are we quarrelling, Hilda? ” 

She swung back to her normal calm. “ I am 
tired and cross —” 

“ I know you are tired. I hope the day nurse 
151 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

will relieve you. I can get two nurses, and let you 
off entirely.” 

She shook her head. “ I’ll stay here. I am in¬ 
terested in the case. And I want to see it through. 
By the way, he has asked again for wine.” 

“ He can’t have it. I told you. You must say 
that my orders are strict.” 

He held out his hand. “ Then you won't go to 
France with me? ” 

“ Let me sleep on it,”— her fingers were firm on 
his own —“ and dont scold me any more.” 

“ Did I scold? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I am sorry.” 

She smiled at him. The slow smile which trans¬ 
formed her. “ I’ll forgive you. Call me up in the 
morning, please.” 

She let him out, and went silently up the stairs. 
The General was again awake. “ I want to talk,” 
he told her; “take off your cap, and sit where I 
can look at you.” 

He was still feverish, still not quite responsible 
for what he might say. 

She sat with the light falling full upon her. 
She never made an unnecessary movement, and her 
stillness soothed him. She was a good listener, 
and he grew garrulous. 

At last he spoke of his wife. “ Sometimes I think 
she is here and I find myself speaking. A little 
152 


HILDA WEARS A CROWN 


while ago, I thought I heard her moving in her 
room, but when I opened my eyes you were bending 
over me. Sometimes I seem to hear her singing — 
there is never a moment that I do not miss her. If 
I were good enough I might hope to meet her — 
perhaps the Lord will let the strength of my love 
compensate for the weakness of my will.” 

So on and on in the broken old voice. 

Bronson came at six, and Hilda went away to 
have some sleep. While the General drowsed she 
had put the collar safely away behind the Chinese 
scroll. 

As she passed through the hall, she stopped for 
a moment at the head of the stairs. The painted 
lady smiled at her, the painted lady who was loved 
by the old man in the shadowed room. 

No, Hilda was not a thief. Yet as she stood 
there, in the cold dawn of that Thanksgiving morn¬ 
ing, she had it in her mind to steal from the painted 
lady things more precious than a pearl collar or an 
^ermine cloak or the diamonds in a crown! 


153 


CHAPTER XII 


WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG 

Jean was haying her breakfast in bed. Emily 
had slipped downstairs to drink an early cup of 
coffee with the Doctor and to warn him, “ Don’t tell 
her to-day.” 

“ Why not? ” 

“ It will spoil her feast. Derry Drake is coming 
to dinner.” 

“ The robber —” 

“ Do yon really feel that way about it? ” 

“ I don’t know how I feel.” 

He rose and went to the window. “ It’s a rotten 
morning.” 

“ It is Thanksgiving.” 

“ I haven’t much to be thankful for,” moodily. 
“ I am, you tell me, about to lose my daughter. I 
am, also, it would seem, to part company with my 
best nurse.” 

“ Hilda? ” 

“ Yes. I wanted her to take charge of things for 
me in France. She elects to stay here.” 

“ But why? ” 

“ She’s a — woman.” 


154 


WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG 


“ You don’t mean that. And I must say that I 
am rather glad that she is not going.” 

It was out at last! She had a feeling as if she 
had taken a cold plunge and had survived it! 

“ Glad? What do you mean, Emily? ” 

“ Every time I waked in the night, I thought of 
Jean and of how she would feel if Hilda went with 
you. Do you realize that if she goes, there are 
things that the world will say? ” 

His face was stern. “ You are very brave to tell 
me that, Emily.” 

“ It had to be said, and last night I shirked it.” 
“ But Hilda is a very good nurse.” 

“ Do you think of her only as a — good nurse? ” 
He turned that over in his mind. “ No. In a 
sense she’s rather attractive. She satisfies a cer¬ 
tain side of me —.” 

“ The best side? ” 

He avoided an answer to that. “When she is 
away I miss her.” 

And now Miss Emily, shaking a little, but not 
showing it, made him face the situation squarely. 
“ Have you ever thought that, missing her, you 
might want to marry her? ” 

“I have thought of it. Why not, Emily?” 

“ Have you thought that it would make her 
your Jean’s — mother —? ” 

His startled look met her steadfast one. His 
mind flew back to Hilda as she had bent down to 
155 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Mm the night before, that he might unfasten the 
necklace. He thought of the evil that her eyes saw 
in him, and in the rest of the world. He thought of 
Jean, and of her white young dreams. 

“ No,” he said, as if to himself, “ not that —” 

She laid her hand on his arm. “ Go by yourself 
■— there’s a big work oyer there, and you can do it 
best — alone.” 

He looked down at her, smiling a little, but smil¬ 
ing sadly. “If Jean’s mother had lived I should 
not have been such a weathercock. Will you write 
to me — promise me that you will write.” 

“ Of course,” cheerfully. “ Oh, by the way, Julia 
tells me that dinner will be at three, and that two 
soldier boys are coming. I rather think I shall 
like that.” 

He ran his fingers through his crinkled hair, 
“ What a lot you get out of life, Emily.” 

“ What makes you say that? ” 

“ Little things count so much with you. You are 
like Jean. She is in seventh Heaven over a snow¬ 
storm — or a chocolate soda. It’s the youth in her 
— and it’s the youth, too, in you —” 

She liked that, and flushed a little. “ Perhaps 
it is because there have been so few big things, 
Bruce, that the little ones look big.” 

He had a fleeting sense of what Emily would be 
like with some big thing in her life — how far 
would it swing her from her sedate course? 

156 


WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG 


“You have done me a lot of good,” he said 
heartily when she left him to go upstairs to Jean. 

Jean was still in bed. “ I must run down to the 
shop,” Emily informed her. “ But I’ll be back in 
plenty of time to dress for dinner.” 

“ Darling —” Jean reminded her, “ you must go 
to church.” 

“ Of course. I shall stop on my way down.” 

“ Pray for me, Emily.” She reached out her 
arms. Emily came to them and they clung to¬ 
gether. “I am so happy, darling—” Jean whis¬ 
pered, “ but there isn’t anything to tell, not really 
— yet — Emily —” 

When Emily had gone, Jean got out her memory 
books. She had made of breakfast a slight affair. 
How could one eat in the face of such astounding 
events. Already this morning flowers had arrived 
for her, heather and American Beauties. And 
Derry had written on his card, “The heather be¬ 
cause of you — the roses because of the day —” 

There were two hours on her hands before 
church. She could dress in one — the intervening 
time must be filled. 

Her memory books were great fat volumes kept 
on a shelf by themselves, and forming a record of 
everything that had happened to her since her first 
day at boarding school. They were in no sense 
diaries, nor could they be called scrap-books. They 
had, rather, been compiled with an eye to certain 
157 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


red-letter events — and their bulkiness had been 
enhanced by the insertion between the leaves of 
various objects not intended for such limited space. ^ 
There was a mask which she had worn at Hallow¬ 
e’en ; the tulle which had tied her roses at gradua¬ 
tion; a little silver ring marking a childish ro¬ 
mance; a flattened and much-dried chocolate drop 
with tender associations; dance-favors, clippings, 
photographs, theater programs, each illumined and 
emphasized by a line or two of sentiment or of 
nonsense in Jean’s girlish scrawl. 

Even now, as she turned the leaves, she found 
herself laughing over a rhyme which her father had 
cut from his daily paper, and had sent in response 
to her wild plea for a box of something good to eat: 

“ Mary had a little lamb, 

A little pork, a little jam, 

A little egg on toast, 

A little potted roast, 

A little stew with dumplings white, 

A little shad, 

For Mary had, 

A little appetite.” 

The big box had followed — how dear Daddy had 
always been — but had she ever wanted to eat like 
that? 

There were letters which her father had written, 
pasted in, envelopes and all, to be read in certain 
longing moments when she had missed him and her 
mother. There were love letters from certain cal- 
158 


WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG 

low college boys — love —/ She laughed now as 
she thought of the pale passion they had offered 
her. 

Derry had had no word for her the night before 
when he had left her at her door. Her father had 
been with her, so Derry could only press her hand 
and watch her as she went in. But there had been 
no need for words. All the evening what they had 
felt had flamed between them —. 

So with the desire to preserve a record of these 
marvellous moments which were crowding into her 
life, she chose a perfectly new book to be devoted 
to Derry. And on the first page she pasted, not the 
faded violet from the basket which had come to her 
yesterday — oh, day of days! — not the dance pro¬ 
gram on which Derry’s name was most magic¬ 
ally scrawled, nor the spring of heather, nor a 
handful of rose leaves from the offering of the 
morning — no, the very first thing that went into 
Jean’s memory book was a frayed silken tassel that 
had been cut from a rose-colored curtain! She 
had carried down her little scissors the night be¬ 
fore, and had snipped it, and here it was — an 
omen for her own rose-colored future! 

Starry-eyed she lay back among her pillows. 

“ Oh, Polly-Ann, Polly-Ann,” she said tensely, to 
the small cat on the cushions, “if I should ever 
wake up and find that it wasn’t true —” 

Polly-Ann stared at her with mystical green orbs. 

159 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


She could offer no help, but she served as a peg 
upon which Jean could hang her eloquence. She 
stretched herself luxuriously and purred. 

“ But it is true, Polly-Ann,” Jean said, “ and I 
am going to church with him — wasn’t it beautiful 
that he should think of going to church with me on 
Thanksgiving morning, Polly-Ann? ” 

She dressed herself presently, making a sort of 
sacred rite of it — because of Derry. She was glad 
that she was pretty — because of Derry. Glad that 
her gray fur coat was becoming — glad of the red 
rose against it. 

He came in his car, but they decided to walk. 

“ I always walk to church,” said Jean. 

“ There’s sleet falling,” said Derry. 

“ I don’t care,” said Jean. 

“ Nor I,” said Derry. 

And so they started out together! 

It was a dismal day, but they did not know it. 
They knelt together in the old church. They 
prayed together. And when at last the benedic¬ 
tion had been said and they stood together for a 
moment alone in the pew, Derry looked down at 
her and said, “ Beloved,” and the morning stars 
sang— ! 

When they went out, the sleet was coming thick 
and fast, and Derry’s car was waiting. And when 
they were safe inside, he turned to her and his voice 
exulted, “ I haven’t even told you that I love you —* 
160 


WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG 


I haven’t asked you to marry me — I haven’t done 
any of the conventional things — it hasn’t needed 
words, and that’s the wonder of it.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But you knew.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ From the first? ” 

“ I think it was from the first —” 

u In the Toy Shop? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you thought I was poor — and I thought 
you were just the girl in the shop? ” 

“ Isn’t it wonderful? ” 

It was more wonderful than they knew. 

“ Do you know that my money has always been 
more important to some people than I have been? 
I have thought they cared for me because of it.” 

“ Ralph said last night that I cared —- for the 
money.” 

She would not tell him of the other things that 
Ralph had said. And even as she thought of him, 
across the path of her rapture fell the shadow of 
Ralph’s scorn of Derry. 

He bent down to her. “ Jean, if I had been that 
shabby boy that you first saw in the shop would you 
have been happy with me, in a plain little house? 
Would you? ” 

Up the streets came the people from the churches 
— the crowds of people who had thanked the Lord 
161 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


soberly, feeling meantime a bit bewildered as to 
the workings of His Providence. Most of them 
were going home to somewhat modified feasts. 
Many of them were having a soldier or two to dine 
with them. And presently these soldiers whom 
they feasted would be crossing the sea to that dread 
land of death and desolation. 

Should they thank the Lord for that? 

Some of the clergymen, craving light, had sought 
it in the Old Testament. But one, more inspired 
than the rest, had found it in the New. 

“And there was war in Heaven; Michael and 
his angels fought against the dragon; and the 
dragon fought and his angels. And prevailed not 
— neither was their place found any more in 
Heaven.” 

Those who came from that church spoke of a 
Holy War, and were thankful that there were men 
in America going forth to fight the Dragon. 

The two soldiers who were to dine at Dr. Mc¬ 
Kenzie’s were plain young fellows from an upper 
county in Maryland. They were waiting somewhat 
awkwardly in the drawing-room when Jean ar¬ 
rived. She took them at once to the less formal 
library, left Derry with them and went upstairs to 
dress. 

As she came into the fresh and frilly room so 
identified with her child life and her girl life, she 
stopped on the threshold. 

162 


WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG 


Oh, little room, little room, the child that once 
lived here will never come again! 

She knelt beside the bed, her face buried in her 
hands. No words came, but in her heart she was 
saying, “ My beloved is mine — and I am his —” 

When she went down, Dr. McKenzie was there, 
and Emily, and the two young soldiers had lost 
their awkwardness. When they found out after¬ 
wards that the young Drake who talked to them so 
simply and unaffectedly was DeRhymer Drake, the 
multi-millionaire, they refused to believe it. “ He 
was a mighty nice chap. He didn’t put on a bit of 
side, and the dinner was some feast.” 

And how could they know that Derry was envy¬ 
ing them their cavalry yellow and their olive drab? 

As for Jean, throughout the afternoon they gazed 
upon her as upon an enchanting vision. When 
they told her “ Good-bye ” it was the boldest who 
asked, with a flush on his hard cheek, if he might 
have a bit of the heather which she wore. “ I am 
Scotch myself, and my mother was, and it would 
seem a sort of mascot.” 

If she hesitated for a moment it was only Derry 
who noticed it. And he helped her out. “ It will 
be a proud day for the heather.” 

So she gave away a part of his gift, and thanked 
him with her eyes. 

It was after the boys had gone that Derry had a 
talk alone with Dr. McKenzie. 

163 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


4( But you haven’t known her a month — ?9 

u I have wanted her all my life.” 

* I see — how old are you? ” 

“ Thirty-one.” 

46 You don’t look it.” 

“ No. And I don’t feel it. Not to-day.” 

“ And you think that she cares? ” 

“ What do you think, sir? ” 

The Doctor threw up his hands. “ Oh, lad, lad, 
there’s all the wonder of it in her eyes when she 
looks at you.” 

When Derry went at last to find Jean, she was 
not in the library. He crossed the hall to the little 
drawing-room. His love sat by the fire alone. 

“ My darling —” 

Thus she came to his arms. But even then he 
held her gently, worshipping her innocence and re¬ 
specting it. 

The next morning he brought her a ring. It was 
such a wonderful ring that she held her breath. 
She sat on the rose-colored davenport while he put 
it on her finger. 

“ If I had been the girl in the Toy Shop,” she told 
him, “ and you had been the shabby boy, you would 
have given me a gold band with three little stones —- 
and I should have liked that, too.” 

“ You shall have the gold ring some day, and it 
won’t have stones in it — and it will be a wedding 
Ting.” 


164 


WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG 
“ Oh —” 

“And when you wear it I shall call you 
Friend Wife—■” 



CHAPTER XIII 


ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THIS? 

In the afternoon the lovers made a triumphant 
pilgrimage to the place where they had first met. 
All the toys in the little shop stared at them — the 
clowns and the dancers in pink and yellow and the 
bisque babies and the glassy-eyed dogs and cats. 

The white elephant was again in the window. 
a He seemed so lonely,” Emily explained, “ and 
with Christmas coming I couldn’t feel comfortable 
to think of him away from it all.” 

Jean showed Derry her midnight camels. “ I am 
going to do peacocks next,” she told him. “ I am 
so proud.” 

He bought all of the camels and a lot of other 
things. “ We’ll take them to Margaret Morgan’s 
kiddies tomorrow; I want you to meet her.” 

Miss Emily found her lavish customer interest¬ 
ing, but demoralizing. “ Run away with him, 
Jean,” she said. “ I am not used to Croesuses. 
He won’t leave anything to sell, and then what 
shall I say to the people who want to buy? ” 

“ Shut up your shop and go to tea with us at 
Chevy Chase,” Derry suggested. 

166 





ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THIS? 


Emily smiled at him. “ It is good of yon to ask 
me, but I can’t. I am not in love, and I have my 
day’s work to do. But I think if you would like to 
take Jean —” 

“ Alone? ” eagerly. “ Do you think I might? ” 

“ Why not?” 

“ I was almost afraid to suggest it.” 

“ I am not a dragon. And there will never be a 
day like this for you again.” 

Jean broke in at that. “ Oh, Emily, they will 
be wonderfuller! ” 

“ But not this day —” 

Derry knew what she meant. “ How sweet you 
are.” 

Miss Emily, flushing, was a transformed Miss 
Emily. “ Well, old people are apt to forget, and I 
have not forgotten.” 

“Darling, darling,” Jean chanted. “I am go¬ 
ing to paint dragons, and they shall all have lovely 
faces, and I shall call them the Not-Forgetting 
Dragons.” 

It was all very superlative. Miss Emily tried 
to send them away, but they still lingered. Jean 
set the music boxes going to celebrate the occasion, 
then stopped them because the only tunes they 
played were German tunes. 

Derry laughed at her, then came to silence be¬ 
fore a box of tin soldiers. They were little French 
soldiers, flat on their backs, bright with paint — 
167 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


u I wonder how they feel about it? ” he asked 
Jean. 

“ About what? ” 

“ Shut up in a box, doing nothing —” 

As the lovers drove away, Emily stood at the 
window looking after them. There was one cus¬ 
tomer in the shop, but Miss Emily had a feeling 
that he would keep himself amused until she was 
ready to wait on him. She had intuitions about 
the people who came to buy, and this tall spare man 
with the slight droop of his shoulders, his upstand¬ 
ing bush of gray hair, his shell glasses on a black 
ribbon was, she was aware, having the time of his 
life. No little boy could have spent more time over 
the toys. He fingered them lovingly as he peered 
through his big horn glasses. 

He saw Miss Emily looking at him and smiling. 
‘“It was the white elephant that brought me in. 
He was made in Germany? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ It is not easy to get them any more? ” 

“ No. You see I have a little card on him * Not 
for sale.’ ” 

He nodded. “ I should like to buy him —” 

She shook her head. “ I have refused many of¬ 
fers.” 

“ I can understand that. Yet, perhaps if I 
should tell you? ” 

There was a slight trace of foreign accent in his 
168 


ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THIS? 


speech. She stiffened. She felt that he was capa¬ 
ble of calling her “ Fraulein.” There was not the 
least doubt in her mind as to the Teutonic extrac¬ 
tion of this gentleman who was shamelessly trying 
to induce her to sell her elephant. 

“ I can’t imagine any reason that would make me 
change my mind.” 

“ My father is German; he makes toys.” 

She showed her surprise. “ Makes toys? ” 

“ Yes. He is an old man — eighty-five. He was 
born in Nuremberg. Until he was twenty-five he 
made elephants like the one in your window. Now 
do you see? ” 

She was not sure that she did see. “ Well? ” 

“ I want him for my father’s Christmas present.” 

“ Impossible,” coldly; “ he is not for sale.” 

He was still patient. “ He will make you an¬ 
other — many others.” 

He had her attention now. “ Make — ele¬ 
phants? ” 

“ Yes. He needs only a pattern. There are cer¬ 
tain things he has forgotten. I should like to make 
him happy.” 

Miss Emily, hostilely convinced that it was not 
her business to contribute to the happiness of any 
octogenarian Hun, shook her head, “ I’m sorry.” 

“ Then you won’t sell him? ” 

“ Certainly not.” 

He still lingered. “ You love your toys — I have 
169 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


been here before, and I have watched you. They 
are not just sawdust and wood and cloth and paint 
to you —- they are real —” 

“ Yes.” 

“ My father is like that. They are real to him. 
There’s an old wax doll that was my mother’s. He 
loves her and talks to her—. Because she was 
made in that Germany which is dead —” 

The fierceness in his voice, the flash of his eye, the 
thrust of his hand as if it held a rapier! 

“ Dead?” 

“ The Germany he knew died when Prussia throt¬ 
tled her. Her poetry died, her music — there is no 
echo now from the Rhine but that of — guns ” 

“ You feel — that way —? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then sit down and tell me — tell me —” She 
was eager. 

“ Tell you what? ” 

“ About your father, about the toys, about the 
Germany that is — dead.” 

He was glad to tell her. It poured forth, with 
now and then an offending phrase, “ Gott in Him- 
mel, do they think we have forgotten? My father 
came to America because he loved freedom — he 
fought in the Civil War for freedom — he loves 
freedom still; and over there they are fighting for 
slavery. The slavery of the little nations, the 
slavery of those who love democracy. They want 
170 


ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THIS f 


Prussia, and more Prussia, and more Prussia 
He struck his hand on the counter so that all the 
dolls danced. 

“ They are fighting to get the whole world under 
an iron heel — to crush — to grind — to destroy. 
My father reads it and weeps. He is an old man, 
Fraulein, and his mind goes back to the Germany 
which sang and told fairy tales, and made toys; do 
you see? 

“ Yet there are people here who do not under¬ 
stand, who point their fingers at him, at me. Who 
think because I am Ulrich Stolle that I am not — 
American. Yet what am I but that? ” 

He got up and walked around the room restlessly., 
“ I am an American. If I was not born here, can I 
help that? But my heart has been moulded here. 
For me there is no other country. Germany I love 
— yes, but as one loves a woman who has been led 
away — because one thinks of the things she might 
have been, not of the thing she is.” 

He came back to her. “ Will you sell me your 
elephant, Fraulein? ” 

She held out her hand to him. Her eyes were 
wet. “ I will lend him to your father. Indeed, I 
cannot sell him.” 

He took her hand in a strong grasp. “ I knew 
you were kind. If you could only see my father.” 

“ Bring him here some day.” 

u He is too old to be brought. He sticks close to 
171 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


his chair. But if you would come and see him? 
You and perhaps the young lady who waited on me 
;when I came before, and who was here to-day with 
the young man whose heart is singing.” 

“ Oh, you saw that? ” 

“ It was there for the whole world to see, was it 
not? A man in love hides nothing. You will bring 
them then? We have flowers even in December in 
our hothouses; you will like that, and you shall see 
my father. I think you will love my father, Frau- 
lein.” 

After he had gone she wondered at herself. She 
had trusted her precious elephant to a perfect 
stranger. He might be anything, a spy, a thief, 
with his u Gotts in Himmel” and his “ Frauleins 99 
■— how Jean would laugh at her for her softhearted¬ 
ness! 

Oh, but he wasn’t a thief, he wasn’t a spy. He 
was a poet and a gentleman. She made very few 
mistakes in her estimates of the people who came to 
her shop. She had made, she was sure, no mistake 
in trusting IJlrich Stolle. 

Jean and Derry motoring to Chevy Chase were 
far away from the world of the Toy Shop. As they 
whirled along the country roads the bare trees 
seemed to bud and bloom for them, the sky was gold. 

The lovely clubhouse as they came into it was 
gay with big-flowered curtains and warm with its 
roaring fires. 


172 


ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THISf 


As they crossed the room together, they attracted 
much attention. There was about them a fine air 
of exaltation —. 

“ Young blood, young blood,” said an old gentle- 
man in a corner. “ Gad, I envy him. Look at her 
eyes —! ” 

But there was more than her eyes to look at. 
There were her cheeks, and her crinkled copper hair 
under the little hat, and the flower that she wore, 
and her white hands as she poured the tea. 

They drank unlimited quantities of Orange Pe¬ 
koe, and ate small mountains of toast. They were 
healthily happy and quite unexpectedly hungry, 
and the fact that they were sitting alone at the table 
gave the whole thing an enchanting atmosphere of 
domesticity. 

“ Ralph spoiled it the other day,” Jean confided. 
“ I had everything ready for you.” 

“ How I hated him when I came in.” 

“ Oh, did you ? ” 

“ Of course,” and then they both laughed, and the 
old gentleman in the corner said to the woman who 
sat with him, “ Let’s get away. I can’t stand it.” 

“ I don’t see why.” 

“ You wouldn’t see. But there was a time once 
when I loved a girl like that.” 

Drusilla and Captain Hewes coming in, after a 
canter through the Park, broke in upon the Para¬ 
dise of the young pair. 


173 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Brasilia in riding togs still managed to preserve 
the picturesque quality of her beauty — a cockade 
in her hat, a red flower in her lapel, a blue tie 
against her white shirt. 

“ And she does it so well,” Derry said, as the two 
came towards them. “ In most women it would 
have an air of bad taste, but Brasilia never goes too 
far —” 

Captain Hewes in tow showed himself a captured 
man. “ I didn’t know that American women could 
ride until Miss Gray showed me — today. It was 
rippin’.” 

Drusilla laughed. “ It is worth more than the 
ride to have you say ‘ rippin’ ’ like that.” 

“ She makes fun of me,” the Captain complained; 
a some day I shall take her over to England and 
show her how our gentle maidens look up to me.” 

“ Your gentle maidens,” Brasilia stated, “ are 
driving ambulances or making munitions. When 
the Tommies come marching home again they will 
find comrades, not clinging vines.” 

“ And they’ll jolly well like it,” said the big Eng' 
lishman; “ a man wants a woman who under¬ 
stands —” 

This was law and gospel to Berry. “ Of course., 
Jean, dear, may I tell Drusilla? ” 

“ As if you had to tell me,” Brasilia scoffed; “ it 
is written all over you.” 

64 Is it? ” Berry marvelled. 

174 


ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THIS? 


“It is. The whole room is lighted up with it 
You are a lucky man, Derry,”— for a moment her 
bright eyes were shadowed —“ and Jean is a lucky 
girl.” She leaned down and kissed the woman that 
Derry loved. “ Oh, you Babes in the Wood —” 

“ By Jove,” the Captain ejaculated, much taken 
by the little scene, “ do you mean that they are go¬ 
ing to be married? ” 

“ Rather,” Drusilla mocked him. “ But don't 
shout it from the housetops. Derry is a public per- 
sonage, and it might get in the papers.” 

“ It is not to get in the papers yet,” Derry said. 
“ Dr. McKenzie won’t let me tell Dad — he’s too ill 
— but we told you because you are my good friend* 
Drusilla.” 

She might have been more than that, but he did 
not know it. When he went away with Jean, she 
looked after him wistfully. 

“ Good-bye, little Galahad,” she said. 

The Captain stared. “ Oh, I say, do you call him 
that? ” 

She nodded. 

“ He’s a knight in shining armor —” 

“ I can’t understand why he’s not fightin’.” 

“ Nobody understands. There’s something back 
of it, and meantime people are calling him a 
coward —” 

“ Doesn’t look like a slacker.” 

“ He isn’t. I have sometimes thought,” said wise 
175 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Brasilia, “ that it might be his father. He’s a gay 
old bird, and Derry has to jack him up.” 

“ Drink? ” 

“Yes. They say that Derry has followed him 
night after night — getting him home if he could; 
if not, staying with him.” 

“ Hard lines —” 

“ And yet he is asking little Jean to marry him. 
I wonder if she will keep step with him.” 

“ Why shouldn’t she? ” 

“ Because Derry is going to travel far and fast in 
the next few months,” Drusilla prophesied. 

Her face settled into tired lines. For the first 
time the Captain saw her divorced from her radi¬ 
ance. He set himself to cheer her. 

“ What is troubling you, dear woman? ” 

She was very frank, and she told him the truth. 
“ I should have been glad to keep step with him 
myself.” 

He laid his hand over hers. “ If you had, where 
would I be? From the moment I saw you, you filled 
my heart.” 

So, after all, she had been to him from the first, 
not a type but a woman. It had come to him like 
that, but not to her. “ You’re the bravest and best 
man I have ever met,” she told him, “ but I don't 
love you.” 

“ I should be glad to wait,” said the poor Captain, 
** until you could find something in me to like.” 

176 


ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THIS? 


“ I find a great deal to like,” she said, “ but it 
wouldn’t be fair to give you anything less than 
love.” 

“ At least you’ll let me have your friendship — 
to take back with me.” 

She looked at him, startled. “ Oh, you are going 
back?” 

“ I may get my orders any day. There are things 
I can be doing over there.” 

Some day she was to see him “ over there,” to see 
him against a background of fire and flame and 
smoke, to see him transfigured by heroism, and she 
was to remember then with an aching heart this mo- 
ment when he had told her that he loved her. 

It was dark when Derry brought Jean home. 
There had been a sunset and an afterglow, and a 
twilight, and an evening star to ravish them as they 
rode, to say nothing of the moon — they came to the 
Doctor’s door quite dizzy with the joy of it. 

Derry was loath to leave. “ Can’t we all go to a 
play tonight? ” he asked Jean’s father. “ You and 
Miss Bridges and the two of us? ” 

“ Certainly not. Jean has done enough to-day. 
She isn’t made of iron.” 

“ She is made of fire and dew,” Derry flung at 
him, lightly. 

“ Heavens, has it come to that? Well, she is still 
my daughter. I won’t have her ill on my hands.” 

“ But, Daddy! ” 


177 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“You are to have a quiet dinner with me, my 
dear, and go to bed — and young Lochinyar may 
call for you in the morning —” 

Young Lochinyar was repentant. “ I didn’t 
think it would tire her.” 

“ Henceforth you will haye to think.” 

“ I know, sir.” 

He was so meek that the Doctor melted. “ Kun 
along and say ‘ Good-bye 7 to her. I’ll giye you ten 
minutes.” 

They wanted ten eternities. But there was, of 
course, tomorrow. They comforted themselyes 
with that. 

At dinner, the Doctor spoke of Derry’s father. 
“All real danger is past, but he will haye to be 
careful.” 

“ When is Hilda coming back? ” 

“ She told me last night that she’d rather stay 
until there was no further need for a nurse. The 
General hates a change, and he has asked her to 
stay.” 

“ Does she like it? ” 

“ She is very comfortable.” 

“ Derry says that his father is an old dear. 7 ’ 

“ He would think so, naturally.” 

There were things about the General’s case which 
were troubling Dr. McKenzie, and of which he could 
not speak. The old man had, undoubtedly been 
given something to drink on Thanksgiving Day. 

178 


ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THISf 


Hilda had had strict orders, and the day nurse, and 
the only other person who had had access to the 
General's room was Bronson. He had made up his 
mind to speak to Derry about Bronson. 

The meal progressed rather silently. The Doctor 
was preoccupied, taciturn. Miss Emily made fu¬ 
tile efforts at conversation. Jean dallied with her 
dinner. 

“ My dear," the Doctor commented as she pushed 
away her salad, “ you can’t live on love." 

“I'm not hungry. We had tea at the Club. 
Drusilla was there — and — we told her." 

“ Told her what? " 

Blushing furiously, “ That Derry and I are going 
to be — married." 

“ But you are not. Not for months. If that cub 
thinks he can carry you off from under my eyes he 
is mistaken. You’ve got to get acquainted with 
each other — I have seen too many unhappy mar¬ 
riages." 

“ But we are not going to be unhappy, Daddy." 

“ How do you know? " 

Her cheeks were blazing. Miss Emily interposed. 
“ Don’t tease her, she’s too tired." 

“ If he is teasing, I don’t care," Jean said, “but 
it always sounds as if he meant it." 

After dinner, the Doctor laid his hand on his 
daughter’s shoulder. “ I want to talk to you, 
daughter." 


179 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ Is it about Derry, Daddy? ” 

“ About myself.” 

Emily, uuderstanding, left them alone. Jean sat 
in her low chair in front of the fire, her earnest eyes 
on her father. “ Well, Daddy.” 

He patted her hand. It was hard for him to 
speak. 

She saw his emotion. “ Is — is it because I am 
going to marry Derry? ” 

“ That, and more than that. Jean, dear, I must 
go to France —” 

“ To France? ” 

“ Yes. They want me to head a hospital. I 
don’t see how I can refuse, and keep my self-respect. 
But it means — leaving you.” 

“ Leaving me —” 

“ My little girl — don’t look like that.” He 
reached out his arms to her. 

She came, and clung to him. “ How soon? ” 

“ As soon as I can wind things up here.” 

“ It — it seems as if I couldn’t let you.” 

“ Then you’ll miss me, dearest ? ” 

“ You know I will, Daddy.” 

“ But you will have your Derry.” His jealousy 
forced that. 

“ As if it makes any difference about — you.” 

She hid her face against his coat. She felt sud¬ 
denly that the war was assuming a new and very 


180 


ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THIS? 


personal aspect. Of course men had to go. But 
she and her father had never been separated — not 
for more than a day or week, or a month when she 
was at the shore. 

“ How long, Daddy? ” 

“ God knows, dearest. Until I am not needed.” 

“ But —” her lip trembled. 

“ You are going to be my brave little girl.” 

“ I ? ll try —” the tears were running down her 
cheeks. 

“ You wouldn’t have me not go, would you? ” 

She shook her head and sobbed on his shoulder. 
He soothed her and presently she sat up. Quite gal¬ 
lantly she agreed that she would stay with Emily. 
If he thought she was too young to marry Derry 
now, she would wait. If Derry went into it, it 
might be easier to let him go as a lover than as a 
husband — she thought it might be easier. Yes, 
she would try to sleep when she went upstairs — 
and she would remember that her old Daddy loved 
her, loved her, and she was to ask God to bless him 
— and keep him — when they were absent one from 
the other —. 

She kissed him and clung to him and then went 
upstairs. She undressed and said her prayers, put 
Polly-Ann on her cushion, turned off the light, and 
got into bed. 

Thei\ she lay in the dark, facing it squarely. 

181 


{ 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


The things she had said to her father were not 
t**ue. She didn’t want him to go to France. She 
didn’t want Derry to go. She was glad that Der¬ 
ry’s mother had made him promise. She didn’t 
care who called him a coward. She cared only to 
keep her own. 

There wasn’t any sense in it, anyhow. Why 
should Daddy and Derry be blown to pieces — or 
made blind — or not come back at all? Just be¬ 
cause a barbarian had brought his hordes into Bel¬ 
gium? Well, let Belgium take care of herself — 
and France. 

She shuddered deeper down into the bed. She 
wasn’t heroic. Hilda had been right about that. 
She was willing to knit miles and miles of wool, to 
go without meat, to go without wheat, to wear old 
clothes, to let the furnace go out and sit shivering 
in one room by a wood fire, she was willing to 
freeze and to starve, but she was not willing to 
send her men to France. 

She found herself shaking, sobbing —. 

Hitherto war had seemed a glorious thing, an in¬ 
spiring thing. She had thrilled to think that she 
was living in a time which matched the days of 
Csesar and Alexander and of Napoleon, of that first 
Richard of England, of Charlemagne, of Nelson 
and of Francis Drake,, of Grant and Lee and Lin¬ 
coln. 


182 


ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THISf 


Even in fiction there had been lyanhoe and—* 
and Alan Breek — and even poor Rawdon Crawley 
at Waterloo — fighters all, even the poorest of them, 
exalted in her eyes by their courage and the clash 
of arms. 

But there wasn’t any glory, any romance in this, 
war. It was machine guns and bombs and dirt y 
and cold and mud; and base hospitals, and men 
screaming with awful wounds — and gas, and hor¬ 
rors, and nerve-shock and — frightfulness. She 
had read it all in the papers and in the magazines. 
And it had not meant anything to her, it had been 
just words and phrases, and now it was more than 
words and phrases —. 

When the hordes of people had swept into Wash¬ 
ington, changing it from its gracious calm into a 
seething and unsettling center of activities, she had 
been borne along on the wings of enthusiasm and 
of high endeavor. She had scolded women who 
would not work, she had scorned mothers and wives 
who had sighed and sobbed because their men must 
go. She had talked of patriotism! 

Well, she wasn’t patriotic. Derry would prob¬ 
ably hate her when she told him. But she was go¬ 
ing to tell him. She wouldn’t have him blown to 
pieces or made blind or not come back at all. And 
in the morning, she would beg Daddy — she would 
beg and beg! 


183 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


As she sat up in bed and looked wildly about her, 
it seemed as if all the corners of the little room 
were haunted by specters. A long time ago she had 
seen Maude Adams in “ L’Aiglon.” She remem¬ 
bered now those Availing voices of the dead at 
Wagram. And in this war millions of men had 
died. It seemed to her that their souls must be 
pressing against the wall which divided them from 
the living — that their voices must penetrate the 
stillness which had always shut them out. “ How 
dare you go on with it? Are men made only for 
this? ” 

She remembered now the thing that her father 
had said on the night after a Cinderella,” 

“ If I had my way, it should be an eye for an eye, 
a tooth for a tooth. For every man that they have 
tortured, we must torture one of theirs. For every 
child mutilated, we must mutilate a child — for 
every woman —” 

Her Daddy had said that. Her kind and tender 
Daddy. Was that what the war made of men? 
Would Daddy and Derry, when they went over, do 
that? Torture and mutilate? Would they, would 
they? And would they come back after that and 
expect her to love them and live with them? 

Well, she wouldn’t. She would not She would 
be afraid of them — of both of them. 

If they loved her, they would stay with her. 
They wouldn’t go away and leave her to be afraid 
184 


ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THIS? 


alone and crying in the dark, with all of those dead 
voices. 

Emily tapped at the door. Came in. “ My dear, 
my dear —. Oh, my poor little Jean.” 

After a long time her father was there, and he 
was giving her a white tablet and a drink of water. 

“ It will quiet her nerves, Emily. I didn’t dream 
that she would take it like this.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


SHINING SOULS 

The next morning Jean was ill. Derry, having 
the news conveyed to him over the telephone, rushed 
in to demand tragically of Dr. McKenzie, “ Was it 
my fault? ” 

“It was the fault of too much excitement. 
Seventh heaven with you for hours, and then my 
news on top of it.” 

“ What news? ” 

The Doctor explained. “ It is going to tear me 
to pieces if she takes it like this. She was half- 
delirious all night, and begged and begged —” 

“ She doesn’t want you to go? ” 

The Doctor ran his fingers through his hair. 
“Well, we’ve been a lot to each other. But she’s 
such a little sport — and patriotic — nobody more 
so. She won’t feel this way when she’s herself 
again.” 

Derry stood drearily at the window looking out. 
“ You think then she won’t be able to see me for 
several days? I had planned such a lot of things.” 

The Doctor dropped a hand on the boy’s shoul¬ 
der. “ Life has a way of spoiling our plans, hasn’t 
it? I had hoped for old age with Jean’s mother.” 

186 


SHINING SOULS 


That was something for youth to think of — of 
life spoiling things — of lonely old age! 

“ I wish,” Derry said, after a pause, “ that you’d 
let me marry her before you go.” 

“ No, no,” sharply, “ she’s too young, Drake. 
And you haven’t known each other long enough.” 

“ Things move rapidly in these days, sir.” 

The Doctor agreed. “ It is one of the significant 
developments. We had become material. And 
now fire and flame. But all the more reason why 
I should keep my head. Jean will be safe here 
with Emily. And you may go any day.” 

“ I wish I might think so. I’d be there now if I 
weren’t bound.” 

“ It won’t hurt either of you to wait until I come 
back,” was the Doctor’s ultimatum, and Derry, 
longing for sympathy, left him presently and made 
his way to the Toy Shop. 

“ If we were to wait ten years do you think I’d 
love her any more than I do now? ” he demanded of 
Emily. “ I should think he’d understand.” 

“ Men never do understand,” said Emily — 
“ fathers. They think their own romance was 
unique, or they forget that there was ever any ro¬ 
mance.” 

“ If you could put in a word for us,” ventured 
Derry. 

“ I am not sure that it would do any good; Bruce 
is a Turk.” 


187 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


: A customer came, and Derry lingered discon¬ 
solately while Emily served her. More customers, 
among them a tall spare man with an upstanding 
bush of gray hair. He had a potted plant in his 
arms, wrapped in tissue paper. He set it on the 
counter and went away. 

When Miss Emily discovered the plant, she asked 
Derry, “ Who put it there? ” 

Derry described the man. “ You were busy. He 
didn’t stop.” 

The plant was a cyclamen, blood-red and beauti¬ 
ful. 

Miss Emily managed to remark casually that she 
had loaned his father an elephant, perhaps he had 
felt that he ought to make some return — but he 
needn’t —. 

“An elephant?” 

“Not a real one. But the last of my plush 
beauties.” 

She set the cyclamen on a shelf, and wrapped up 
the parcel of toys which Derry had bought the day 
before. “ I may as well take them to Margaret 
Morgan’s kiddies,” he told her. “ I want to tell 
her about Jean.” 

After Derry had gone, Miss Emily stood looking 
at the cyclamen on the shelf. It was a lovely thing, 
with a dozen blooms. She wished that her bene¬ 
factor had stayed to let her thank him. She was 
188 


SHINING SOULS 


not sure that she even knew where to send a note. 

She hunted him up in the telephone book, and 
found him — Ulrich Stolle. His hot-houses were 
on the old Military Road. She remembered now to 
have seen them, and to have remarked the house,- 
which was peaked up in several gables, and had 
quaint brightly-colored iron figures set about the 
garden — with pointed caps like the graybeards in 
Rip van Winkle, or the dwarf in RumpelstiltzMn. 

When Derry’s car slid up to Margaret’s door, he 
saw the two children at an upper window. They 
waved to him as he rang the bell. He waited sew 
era! moments and no one came to open the d«$or> 
He turned the knob and, finding it unlatched, let 
himself in. 

As he went through the hall he was aware ox & 
strange stillness. Not a maid was in sight. Pam 
ing Margaret’s room on the second floor he heard; 
voices. 

The children were alone in the nursery. It was 
flooded with sunlight. Margaret-Mary’s pink wash 
frock, Teddy’s white linen — yellow jonquils* in a 
blue bow — snowy lambs gambolling on a green 
frieze — Bo-peeps, flying ribbons — it was a cheer¬ 
ing and charming picture. 

“ How gay you are,” said Derry. 

“ We are not gay in our hearts,” Teddy told him, 

« Why not? ” 


189 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


" Mother’s crying—-we heard her, and then 
Nurse went down and left us, and we looked out of 
the window and you came.” 

Derry’s heart seemed to stop beating. "Cry¬ 
ing? ” 

Even as he spoke, Margaret stood on the thresh¬ 
old. There were no tears, but it was worse than 
tears. 

He started towards her, but with a gesture she 
stopped him. 

" I am so glad you are — here,” she said. 

" My dear — what is it?” 

She put her hand up to her head, " Teddy, dear¬ 
est,” she asked, "can you take care of Margaret- 
Mary until Cousin Derry comes back? I want to 
talk to him.” 

Teddy’s grave eyes surveyed her. " You’ve been 
cryin’,” he said. " I told Cousin Derry —” 

"Yes. I have had — bad news. But — I am 
not going to cry — any more. And you’ll take care 
of sister? ” 

" I tell you, old chap,” said Derry resourcefully, 
" you and Margaret-Mary can open my parcel, and 
when I come back we’ll all play together.” 

Outside with Margaret, with the door shut on the 
children, he put his arm about her. " Is it Win — 
is he — hurt? ” 

" He is — oh, Derry, Derry, he is dead! ” 

Even then she did not cry. " The children 
190 


SHINING SOULS 


mustn’t know. Not till I get a grip on myself, 
They mustn’t think of it as — sad. They must 
think of it as — glorious — that he went —that 
way—.” 

Held close in his arms, she shook with sobs, si* 
lent, hard. He carried her down to her room. The 
maids were gathered there — Nurse utterly useless 
in her grief. It came to Derry, as he bent over 
Margaret, that he had always thought of Nurse as 
a heartless automaton, playing Chorus to Teddy, 
yet here she was, a weeping woman with the rest 
of them. 

He sent all of the servants away, except Nurse, 
and then Margaret told him, “ He was in one of the 
French towns which the Germans had vacated, and 
he happened to pick up a toy — that some little 
child might have dropped — and there was an ex¬ 
plosive hidden in it — and that child’s toy killed 
him, Derry, killed him —” 

“ My God, Margaret —” 

“They had put it there that it might kill a — 
child! ” 

“Derry, the children mustn’t know how it hap¬ 
pened. They mustn’t think of him as — hurt. 
They know that something is the matter. Can you 
tell them, Derry? So that they will think of him 
as fine and splendid, and going up to Heaven be¬ 
cause God loves brave men —? ” 

It was a hard task that she had set him, and 
191 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

s- 

when at last lie left her, he went slowly up the 
stairs. 

The children had strung the Midnight Camels 
across the room, the purple, patient creatures that 
Jean had made. 

“ The round rug is an oasis,” Teddy explained, 
t( and the jonquil is a palm — and we are going to 
save the dates and figs from our lunch/’ 

“ I want my lunch,” Margaret-Mary complained. 

Derry looked at his watch. It was after twelve. 
The servants were all demoralized. “ See here,” he 
said, “ you sit still for a moment, and I’ll go down 
for your tray.” 

He brought it up himself, presently, bread and 
milk and fruit. 

They sat on the oasis and ate, with the patient 
purple camels grouped in the shade of the jonquil 
palm. 

Then Derry asked, “ Shall I tell you the story of 
How t the Purple Camels Came to Paradise? ” 

“ Yes,” they said, and he gathered little Margaret- 
Mary into his arms, and Teddy lay flat on the floor 
and looked up at him, while Derry made his difficult 
way towards the thing he had to tell. 

“You see, the purple camels belonged to the 
Three Wise Men, the ones who journeyed, after the 
Star — do you remember? And found the little 
baby who was the Christ? And because the purple 
camels had followed the Star, the good Lord said 
192 


SEINING SOULS 


to them, 6 Some day you shall journey towards 
Paradise, and there you shall see the shining souls 
that dwell in happiness/ ” 

“ Do their souls really shine? ” Teddy asked. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Why? ” 

“ Because of the light in Paradise — the warm, 
sweet light, clearer than the sunshine, Teddy, 
brighter than the moon and the stars —.” 

The children sighed rapturously. “ Go on,” 
Teddy urged. 

“ So the patient camels began their wonderful 
pilgrimage — they crossed the desert and rounded 
a curve of the sea, and at last they came to Para¬ 
dise, and the gate was shut and they knelt in front 
of it, and they heard singing, and the sound of 
silver trumpets, and at last the gate swung back, 
and they saw — what do you think they saw? ” 

“ The shining souls,” said Teddy, solemnly. 

“ Yes, the shining souls in all that lovely light — 
there were the souls of happy little children, and of 
good women, but best of all,” his voice wavered a 
little, “ best of all, there were the souls of — brave 
men.” 

“ My father is a brave man.” 

Was , oh, little Teddy! 

“And the purple camels said to the angels who 
guarded the gate, ‘We have come because we saw 
the little Christ in the manger/ 

193 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ And the angel said, “ It is those who see Him 
who enter Paradise.’ So the patient purple camels 
went in and the gates were shut behind them, and 
there they will live in the warm, sweet light 
throughout the deathless ages.” 

“ What are de-yethless ages, Cousin Derry? M 

“ Forever and ever.” 

“ Is that all? ” 

“ It is all about the camels — but not all about 
the shining souls.” 

“ Tell us the rest.” 

He knew that he was bungling it, but at last he 
brought them to the thought of their father in 
Paradise, because the dear Lord loved to have him 
there. 

“ But if he’s there, he can’t be here,” said the 
practical Teddy. 

“ No.” 

“ I want him here. Doesn’t Mother want him 
here? ” 

“ Well — yes.” 

“ Is she glad to have him go to Paradise? ” 

; “ Not exactly — glad.” 

“ Was that why she was crying? ” 

“ Yes. Of course she will miss him, but it is a 
wonderful thing just the same, Teddy, when you 
think of it — when you think of how your own 
father went over to France because he was sorry for 
all the poor little children who had been hurt, and 
194 


SEINING SOULS 


for all the people who had suffered and suffered 
until it seemed as if they must not suffer any more 
— and he wanted to help them, and — and —” 

But here he stumbled and stopped. “ I tell you, 
Teddy / 7 he said, as man to man, u it is going to hurt 
awfully, not to see him. But you’ve got to be 
careful not to be too sorry — because there’s your 
Mother to think of.” 

“ Is she crying now ? ” 

“ Yes. Down there on her bed. Could you be 
very brave if you went down, and told her not to 
be sorry? ” 

“ Brave, like my Daddy? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Margaret-Mary was too young to understand — 
she was easily comforted. Derry sang a little song 
and her eyes drooped. 

But downstairs the little son who was brave like 
his father, sat on the edge of the bed, and held his 
mother’s hand. “ He’s in Paradise with the purple 
camels, Mother, and he’s a shining soul — 

It was a week before Jean went with Derry to see 
Margaret. It had been a week of strange happen¬ 
ings, of being made love to by Derry and of getting 
Daddy ready to go away. She had reached heights 
and depths, alternately. She had been feverishly 
radiant when with her lover. She had resolved 
that she would not spoil the wonder of these days 
by letting him know her state of mind. 

195 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


The nights were the worst. None of them were 
as bad as the first night, but her dreams were of 
battles and bloodshed, and she waked in the morn¬ 
ings with great heaviness of spirit. 

What Derry had told her of Margaret’s loss 
seemed but a confirmation of her fears. It was 
thus that men went away and never returned—. 
Oh, how Hilda would have triumphed if she could 
have looked into Jean’s heart with its tremors and 
terrors! 

She came, thus, into the room, where Margaret 
sat with her children. 

“ I want you two women to meet,” Derry said, as 
he presented Jean, “ because you are my dearest —” 

“ He has told me so much about you,”— Margaret 
put her arm about Jean and kissed her —“ and he 
has used all the adjectives — yet none of them was 
adequate.” 

Jean spoke tensely. “ It doesn’t seem right for 
us to bring our happiness here.” 

“Why not? This has always been the place of 
happiness? ” She caught her breath, then went on 
quickly, “ You mustn’t think that I am heartless. 
But if the women who have lost should let them¬ 
selves despair, it would react on the living. The 
wailing of women means the weakness of men. I 
believe that so firmly that I am afraid to — cry.” 

“ You are braver than I —” slowly. 

196 


SEINING SOULS 

a No. You’d feel the same way, dear child, about 
Derry.” 

“ No. I should not. I shouldn’t feel that way 
at all. I should die — if I lost Derry —” 

Light leaped in her lover’s eyes. But he shook 
his head. “ She’d bear it like other brave women. 
She doesn’t know herself, Margaret.” 

“ None of us do. Do you suppose that the wives 
and mothers of France ever dreamed that it would 
be their fortitude which would hold the enemy 
back?” 

“Do you think it did, really?” Jean asked her. 

“ I know it. It has been a barrier as tangible as 
a wall of rock.” 

“ You put an awful responsibility upon the 
women.” 

“ Why not? They are the mothers of men.” 

They sat down after that, and Jean listened 
frozenly while Margaret and Derry talked. The 
children in front of the fire were looking at the pic¬ 
tures in a book which Derry had brought. 

Teddy, stretched at length on the rug in his fa- 
vorite attitude, was reading to Margaret-Mary. 
His mop of bright hair, his flushed cheeks, his active 
gestures spoke of life quick in his young body —. 

And his father was — dead —! 

Oh, oh, Mothers of men —! 


197 


CHAPTER XV 


HILDA BREAKS THE RULES 

It was Dr. McKenzie who told Hilda of Jean’s 
engagement to Derry Drake. 

“ I thought it best for them not to say anything 
to the General until he is better. So you may con¬ 
sider it confidential, Hilda.” 

“ Of course.” 

She had come to his office to help him with his 
books. The nurse who somewhat inadequately sup¬ 
plied her place was having an afternoon off. The 
Doctor had been glad to see her, and had told her 
so. “ I am afraid things are in an awful muddle.” 

“ Not so bad that they can’t be straightened out 
in an hour or two.” 

“ I don’t see why you insist upon staying on the 
General’s case. I shouldn’t have sent you if I had 
thought you’d keep at it like this.” 

“ I always keep at things when I begin them, 
don’t I? ” 

He knew that she did. It was one of the quali¬ 
ties which made her valuable. “ I believe that yon 
are staying away to let me see how hard it is to get 
along without you.” 


198 


HILDA BREAKS THE RULES 

“ It wouldn’t be a bad idea, but that’s not the 
reason. I am staying because I like the case.” 
She shifted the topic away from herself. 

u People will say that Jean has played her cards 
well.” 

He blazed, “ What do you mean, Hilda? ” 

“ He has a great deal of money.” 

“ What has that to do with it? ” 

Her smile was irritating. “ Oh, I know you are 
not mercenary. But a million or two won’t come 
amiss in any girl’s future — and two country 
houses, and a house in town.” 

“ You seem to know all about it.” 

“ The General talks a lot — and anyhow, all the 
world knows it. It’s no secret.” 

“ I rather think that Jean doesn’t know it. I 
haven’t told her. She realizes that he is rich, but 
it doesn’t seem to have made much impression on 
her.” 

“ Most people will think she is lucky to have 
caught him.” 

“ He’s not a fish,” with rising anger, “ and as for 
Jean, she’d marry him if he hadn’t a penny, and 
you know it, Hilda.” 

Hilda considered that for a moment. Then she 
said, “ Is it his money or his father’s? ” 

“ Belongs to the old man. Derry’s mother had 
nothing but an irreproachable family tree.” 

Hilda’s long hands were clasped on the desk, her 
199 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


eyes were upon them. “If he shouldn’t like his 
son’s marriage, he might make things uncomfort¬ 
able.” 

“ Why shouldn’t he like my Jean? ” 

“ He probably will. But there’s always the 
chance that he may not. He may be more ambi¬ 
tious.” 

Hr. McKenzie ran his fingers through his crinkled 
hair. “ She’s good enough for — a king.” 

“ You think that, naturally, but he isn’t the dot¬ 
ing father of an only daughter.” 

“ If he thinks that my daughter isn’t good enough 
for his son —” 

“You needn’t shout at me like that,” calmly; 
“ but he knows as well as you do that Derry Drake’s 
millions could get him any girl.” 

He had a flashing sense of the coarse fiber of 
Hilda’s mental make-up. “ My Jean is a well-born 
and well-bred woman,” he said, slowly. “ It is a 
thing that money can’t buy.” 

“ Money buys a very good counterfeit. Lots of 
the women who come here aren’t ladies, not in the 
sense that you mean it, but on the surface you can’t 
tell them apart.” 

He knew that it was true. No one knows better 
than a doctor what is beneath the veneer of social 
convention and personal hypocrisy. 

“And as for Jean,” her quiet voice analyzed, 
“what do you know of her, really? You’ve kept 
200 


HILDA BREAKS THE RULES 


her shut away from the things that could hurt her, 
but how do you know what will happen when you 
open the gate? ” 

Yet Emily had said —? His hand came down on 
top of the desk. “ I think we won’t discuss Jean.” 

“ Very well, but you brought it on yourself. And 
now please go away, Eve got to finish this and get 
back —” 

He went reluctantly, and returned to say, u You’ll 
come over again before I sail, and straighten things 
out for me? ” 

“ Of course.” 

“ You don’t act as if you cared whether I went or 
not.” 

“ I care, of course. But don’t expect me to 
cry. I am not the crying kind.” The little room 
was full of sunlight. She was very pink and white 
and self-possessed. She smiled straight up into his 
face. “ What good would it do me to cry? 

After she had left him he was restless. She had 
been for so long a part of his life, a very necessary 
and pleasant part of it. She never touched his 
depths or rose to his heights. She seemed to 
beckon, yet not to care when he came. 

He spoke of her that night to Emily. “ Hilda 
was here to-day and she reminded me that people 
might think that my daughter is marrying Derry 
Drake for his money.” 

“ She would look at it like that.” 

201 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ When Hilda talks to me ”— he was rumpling 
his hair —“ I have a feeling that all the people in 
the world are unlovely —” 

“ There are plenty of unlovely people/’ said Em¬ 
ily, “but why should we worry with what they 
think? ” 

She was knitting, and he found himself watching 
her hands. “ You have pretty hands/’ he told her, 
unexpectedly. 

She held them out in front of her. “ When I was 
a little girl my mother told me that I had three 
points of beauty — my hands, my feet, and the fam¬ 
ily nose,” she smiled whimsically, “ and she assured 
me that I would therefore never be common-place. 
f Any woman may be beautiful/ was her theory, 
^but only a woman with good blood in her veins 
can have hands and feet and a nose like yours —.’ 
I was dreadfully handicapped in the beginning of 
my life by my mother’s point of view. I am afraid 
that even now if the dear lady looks down from 
Heaven and sees me working in my Toy Shop she 
will feel the family disgraced by this one member 
who is in trade. It was only in the later years that 
I found myself, that I realized how I might reach 
cut towards things which were broader and bigger 
than the old ideals of aristocratic birth and inher¬ 
ited possessions.” 

He thought of Hilda. “Yet it gave you some¬ 
thing, Emily,” he said, slowly, “ that not every 
202 


HILDA BREAKS THE RULES 


'woman has: good-breeding, and the ability to look 
above the sordid. You are like Jean — all your 
world is rose-colored.” 

She was thoughtful. “ Not quite like Jean. X 
heard a dear old bishop ask the other day why we 
should see only the ash cans and garbage cans in 
our back yards when there was blue sky above? I 
know there are ash cans and garbage cans, but I 
make myself look at the sky. Jean doesn’t know 
that the cans are there.” 

“ The realists will tell you that you should keep 
your eyes on the cans.” 

“ I don’t believe it,” said Miss Emily, stoutly; 
“ more people are made good by the contemplation 
of the fine and beautiful than by the knowledge of 
evil. Eve knew that punishment would follow the 
eating of the apple. But she ate it. If I had a 
son I should tell him of the strength of men, not of 
their weaknesses.” 

He nodded. “ I see. And yet there is this about 
Hilda. She does not deceive herself; — perhaps 
you do — and Jean.” 

“ Perhaps it is Hilda who is deceived. All the 
people in the world are not unlovely — all of them 
are not mercenary and deceitful and selfish.” Her 
cheeks were flushed. 

“ Nobody knows that better than a doctor, Emily. 
I am conscious that Hilda draws out the worst in 
me — yet there is something about her that makes 
203 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 

me want to find tilings out, to explore life with 
her —” 

He was smiling into the fire. Miss Emily girded 
herself and gave him a shock. “ The trouble with 
you is that you want the admiration of every woman 
who comes your way. Most of your patients wor¬ 
ship you — Jean puts you on a pedestal—-even I 
tell you that you have a soul. But Hilda withholds 
the admiration you demand, and you want to con¬ 
quer her — to see her succumb with the rest of us.” 

“ The rest of you! Emily, you have never suc¬ 
cumbed.” 

“ Oh, yes, I have. I seem to be saying, ‘ He may 
have a few weaknesses, but back of it all he is big 
and fine.’ But Hilda’s attitude indicates, 6 He is 
not fine at all.’ And you hate that and want to 
show her.” 

He chuckled. “ By Jove, I do, Emily. Perhaps 
it is just as well that I am getting away from her.” 

“ I wouldn’t admit it if I were you. I’d rather 
see you face a thing than run away.” 

“ If Eve had run away from the snake in the 
apple tree, she would not have lost her Eden — 
poor Eve.” 

“ Poor Adam — to follow her lead. He should 
have said, ‘ No, my dear, apples are not permitted 
by the Food Administrator; we must practice self- 
denial.’ ” 


204 


HILDA BREAKS THE RULES 

66 1 think I’d rather have him sinning than such 
a prig.” 

“ It depends on the point of view.” 

He enjoyed immensely crossing swords with 
Emily. There was never any aftermath of unpleas¬ 
antness. She soothed him even while she criticised. 

They spoke presently of Jean and Derry. 

“ They want to get married.” 

“ Well, why not? ” 

“ She’s too young, Emily. Too ignorant of what 
life means — and he may go to France any day. 
He is getting restless — and he may see things dif¬ 
ferently — that his duty to his country transcends 
any personal claim — and then what of Jean? — a 
little wife — alone.” 

“ She could stay with me.” 

“ But marriage, marriage, Emily —- why in Heav¬ 
en’s name should they be in such a hurry? ” 

“ Why should they wait, and miss the wonder of 
it all, as I have missed it — all the color and glow, 
the wine of life? Even if he should go to France, 
and die, she will bear his beloved name — she will 
have the right to weep.” 

He had never seen her like this — the red was 
deep in her cheeks, her voice w as shaken, her bosom 
rose and fell with her agitation. 

“ Emily, my dear girl —■” 

“ Let them marry, Bruce, can’t you see? Can’t 
205 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


you see. It is their day — there may be no tomor¬ 
row/’ 

“ But there are practical things. Emily. If she 
should have a child? ” 

“Why not? It will be his — to love. Only a 
woman with empty arms knows what that means, 
Bruce.” 

And this was Emily, this rose-red, wet-eyed crea¬ 
ture was Emily, whom he had deemed unemotional, 
cold, self-contained! 

“ Men forget, Bruce. You wouldn’t listen to 
reason when you wooed Jean’s mother. You were 
a demanding, imperative lover — you wanted your 
own way, and you had it.” 

“ But I had known Jean’s mother all my life.” 

“ Time has nothing to do with it.” 

“ My dear girl —” 

“ It hasn’t.” 

She was illogical, and he liked it. “ If I let them 
marry, what then? ” 

“ They will love you for it.” 

“ They ought to love you instead.” 

“ I shall be out of it. They w T ill be married, and 
you will be in France, and I shall sell — toys —•” 

She tried to laugh, but it was a poor excuse. He 
glanced at her quickly. “ Shall you miss me, 
Emily? ” 

Her hands went out in a little gesture of de« 
206 


HILDA BREAKS THE RULES 

spair. “ There you go, taking my tears to your¬ 
self.” 

He was a bit disconcerted. “ Oh, I say —” 

“But they are not for you. They are for my 
lost youth and romance, Bruce. My lost youth and 
romance.” 

Leaning back in his chair he studied her. Her 
eyes were dreamy — the rose-red was still in her 
cheeks. For the first time he realized the prettiness 
of Emily; it was as if in her plea for others she had 
brought to life something in herself which glowed 
and sparkled. 

“ Look here,” he said. “ I want you to write to 
me.” 

“ I am a busy woman.” 

“ But a letter now and then —” 

“ Well, now and then —” 

He was forced to be content with that. She was 
really very charming, he decided as he got into his 
car. She was such a gentlewoman — she created 
an atmosphere which belonged to his home and 
hearth. 

When he came in late she was not waiting up for 
him as Hilda had so often waited. There was a 
plate of sandwiches on his desk, coffee ready in the 
percolator to be made by the turning on of the elec¬ 
tricity. But he ate his lunch alone. 

Yet in spite of the loneliness, he was glad that 
207 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Emily had not waited np for him. It was a thing 
which Hilda might do — Hilda, who made a world 
of her own. But Emily’s world was the world of 
womanly graciousness and dignity — the world in 
which his daughter moved, the world which had 
been his wife’s. For her to have eaten alone with 
him in his office in the middle of the night would 
have made her seem less than he wanted her to be. 

Before he went to bed, he called up Hilda. “ I 
forgot to tell you when you were here this after¬ 
noon that I asked young Drake about Bronson. 
He says that it isn’t possible that the old man is 
giving the General anything against orders. 
You’d better watch the other servants and be sure 
of the day nurse —” 

“ I am sure of her and of the other servants — 
but I still have my doubts about Bronson.” 

“ But Drake says —” 

“ I don’t care what he says. Bronson served the 
General before he served young Drake — and he’s 
not to be trusted.” 

“ I should be sorry to think so; he impresses me 
as a faithful old soul.” 

“Well, my eyes are rather clear, you know.” 

“ Yes, I know. Good night, Hilda.” 

She hung up the receiver. She had talked to him 
at the telephone in the lower hall, which was en¬ 
closed, and where one might be confidential with¬ 
out being overheard. 


208 


HILDA BREAKS THE RULES 


She sat very still for a few moments in the little 
booth, thinking; then she rose and went upstairs. 

The General was awake and eager. 

“ Shall I read to you? ” Hilda asked. 

“ No, I’d rather talk.” 

She shaded the light and sat beside the little 
table. “ Did you like your dinner? ” 

“Yes. Bronson said you made the broth. It 
was delicious.” 

“ I like to cook — when I like the people I cook 
for.” 

He basked in that. 

“ There are some patients — oh, I have wanted to 
salt their coffee and pepper their cereal. You have 
no idea of the temptations which come to a nurse.” 

“ Are you fond of it — nursing? ” 

“ Yes. It is nice in a place like this — and at 
Dr. McKenzie’s. But there are some houses that 
are awful, with everybody quarrelling, the children 
squalling—. I hate that. I want to be comfort¬ 
able. I like your thick carpets here, and the quiet, 
and the good service. And the good things to eat, 
and the little taste of wine that we take together.” 
Her low laugh delighted him. 

“ The wine? You are going to drink another 
glass with me before I go to sleep.” 

“ Yes. But it is our secret. Dr. McKenzie 
would kill me if he knew, and a nurse must obey 
orders.” 


209 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ He need never know. And it won’t hurt me.” 

“Of course not. But he has ideas on the sub¬ 
ject.” 

“ May I have it now? ” 

“ Wait until Bronson goes to bed.” 

“ Bronson has nothing to do with it. A servant 
has neither ears nor eyes.” 

“ It might embarrass him if the Doctor asked 
him. And why should you make him lie? ” 

Bronson, pottering in, presently, was told that 
he would not be needed. “ Mr. Derry telephoned 
that he would be having supper after the play at 
Miss Gray’s. You can call him there if he is 
wanted.” 

“ Thank you, Bronson. Good-night.” 

When the old man had left them, she said to the 
General, “ Do you know that your son is falling in 
love? ” 

“ In love? ” 

“Yes, desperately — at first sight?” 

He laughed. “ With whom? ” 

“ Dr. McKenzie’s daughter.” 

“What?” He raised himself on his elbow. 

“Yes. Jean McKenzie. I am not sure that I 
ought to tell you, but somehow it doesn’t seem right 
that you are not being told —” 

He considered it gravely. “ I don’t want him to 
get married,” he said at last. “ I want him to go 
to war. I can’t tell you, Miss Merritt, how bitter 
210 


HILDA BREAKS THE RULES 

my disappointment has been that Derry won’t 
fight,” 

“ He may have to fight.” 

“ Ho yon think I want him dragged to defend the 
honor of his country? I’d rather see him dead.” 
He was struggling for composure. 

“ Oh, I shouldn’t have told you,” she said, so¬ 
licitously. 

“ Why not? It is my right to know.” 

“ Jean is a pretty little thing, and you may like 
her.” 

“ I like McKenzie,” thoughtfully. 

She glanced at him. His old face had fallen 
into gentler lines. She gave a hard laugh. “ Of 
course, a rich man like your son rather dazzles the 
eyes of a young girl like Jean.” 

“ You think then it is his — money? ” 

“ I shouldn’t like to say that. But, of course, 
money adds to his charms.” 

“ He won’t have any money,” grimly, “ unless I 
choose that he shall. I can stop his allowance to¬ 
morrow. And what would the little lady do then ? ” 

She shrugged. “ I am sure I don’t know. She’d 
probably take Ralph Witherspoon. He’s in the 
race. She dropped him after she met your son.” 

The General’s idea of women was somewhat ex¬ 
alted. He had an old-fashioned chivalry which 
made him blind to their faults, the champion of 
their virtues. He had always been, therefore, to a 
211 


TEE TIE SOLDIER 


certain extent, at the mercy of the unscrupulous. 
He had loaned money and used his influence in be¬ 
half of certain wily and weeping females who had 
deserved at his hands much less than they got. 

In his thoughts of a wife for Derry, he had pic¬ 
tured her as sweet and unsophisticated — a bit re¬ 
served, like Derry’s mother — 

The portrait which Hilda had subtly presented 
was of a mercenary little creature, lured by the 
glitter of gold — oft with the old and on with the 
new, lacking fineness. 

“ I can stop his allowance,” he wavered. “ It 
would be a good test. But I love the boy. The 
war has brought the first misunderstandings be¬ 
tween Derry and me. It would have hurt his 
mother.” 

Hilda was always restless when the name was in¬ 
troduced of the painted lady on the stairs. When 
the General spoke of his wife, his eyes grew kind — 
and inevitably his thoughts drifted away from 
Hilda to the days that he had spent with Derry’s 
mother. 

“ She loved us both,” he said. 

Hilda rose and crossed the room. A low book¬ 
case held the General’s favorite volumes. There 
was a Globe edition of Dickens on the top shelf, 
little fat brown books, shabby with much handling. 
Hilda extracted one, and inserted her hand in the 
212 


HILDA BREAKS THE RULES 


hollow space back of the row. She brought out a 
small flat bottle and put the book back. 

“ I always keep it behind 6 Great Expectations/ ” 
she said, as she approached the bed. “ It seems 
rather appropriate, doesn’t it? ” 

The old eyes, which had been soft with memories, 
glistened. 

She filled two little glasses. “Let us drink to 
©ur — secret.” 

Then while the wine was firing his veins, she 
spoke again of Jean and Derry. “ It really seems 
as if he should have told you.” 

“ I won’t have him getting married. He can’t 
marry unless he has money.” 

“ Please don’t speak of it to him. I don’t want 
to get into trouble. You wouldn’t want to get me 
into trouble, would you? ” 

“ No.” 

She filled his glass again. He drank. Bit by 
bit she fed the fire of his doubts of his son. When 
at last he fell asleep in his lacquered bed he had 
made up his mind to rather drastic action. 

She sat beside him, her thoughts flying ahead 
into the years. She saw things as she wanted them 
to be—'Derry at odds with his father; married to 
Jean; herself mistress of this great house, wearing 
the diamond crown and the pearl collar; her por¬ 
trait in the place of the one of the painted lady on 
318 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


the stairs; looking down on little Jean who had 
judged her by youth’s narrow standards — whose 
husband would have no fortune unless he chose to 
accept it at her hands. 

Thus she weighed her influence over the sleep¬ 
ing sick man, thus she dreamed, calm as fate in her 
white uniform. 


CHAPTER XYI 


JEAN-JOAN 

Brusilla Gray’s little late suppers were rather 
famous. It was not that she spent so much money, 
but that she spent much thought. 

Tonight she was giving Captain Hewes a sweet 
potato pie. “ He has never eaten real American 
things,” she said to Jean. “Nice homey-cooked 
things —” 

“No one but Brusilla would ever think of pie at 
night,” said Marion Gray, “ but she has set her 
heart on it.” 

There were some very special hot oyster sand¬ 
wiches which preceded the pie — peppery and sav¬ 
ory with curls of bacon. 

“ I hope you are hungry,” said Brusilla as her big 
black cook brought them in. “Aunt Chloe hates 
/ to have things go back to the kitchen.” 

Nothing went back. There was snow without, a 
white whirl in the air, piling up at street corners^ 
a night for young appetites to be on edge. 

“ Jove,” said the Captain, as he leaned back in his 
chair, “ how I shall miss all this! ” 

Jean turned her face towards him, startled. 
u Miss it? ” 


215 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“Yes. I am going back — got my orders to 
day.” 

Drusilla was cutting the pie. “ Isn’t it glori¬ 
ous ! ” 

Jean gazed at her with something like horror. 
Glorious! How could Drusilla go on, like Wer- 
ther’s Charlotte, calmly cutting bread and butter? 
Captain Hewes loved her, anybody with half an eye 
could see that — and whether she loved him or not, 
he was her friend — and she called his going “ glo¬ 
rious ! ” 

“ I was afraid my wound might put me on the 
shelf,” the Captain said. 

“ He is ordered straight to the front,” Drusilla 
elucidated. “ This is his farewell feast.” 

After that everything was to lean funeral baked 
meats. The pie deep in its crust, rich with eggs 
and milk, defiant of conservation, was as sawdust 
to her palate. 

Glorious! 

Well, she couldn’t understand Margaret. She 
couldn’t understand Drusilla. She didn’t want to 
understand them. 

“ Some day I shall go over,” Drusilla was saying. 
“ I shall drive something — it may be a truck and 
it may be an ambulance. But I can’t sit here any 
longer doing nothing.” 

“ I think you are doing a great deal,” said Jean. 
“ Look at the committees you are managing.” 

216 


JEAN-JOAN 


u Oh, things like that,” said Drusilla contemptu¬ 
ously. “ Women’s work. I’m not made to knit 
and keep card indexes. I want a man’s job.” 

There was something almost boyish about her as 
she said it. She had parted her hair on the side, 
which heightened the effect. “ In the old days,” she 
told Captain Hewes, “ I should have worn doublet 
and hose and have gone as your page.” 

“ Happy old days —.” 

“ And I should have written a ballad about you,” 
said Marion, “ and have sung it to the accompani¬ 
ment of my harp — and my pot-boilers would never 
have been. And we should all have worn trains 
and picturesque headdresses instead of shirtwaists 
and sports hats, and I should have called some man 
‘ my Lord/ and have listened for his footsteps in¬ 
stead of ending my days in single blessedness with 
a type-writer as my closest companion.” 

Everybody laughed except Jean. She broke her 
cheese into small bits with her fork, and stared 
down at it as if cheese were the most interesting 
thing in the whole wide world. 

It was only two weeks since they had had the 
news of Margaret’s husband — only a month since 
he had died. And Winston had been Captain 
Hewes’ dear friend; he had been Derry’s. Would 
anybody laugh if Derry had been dead only four¬ 
teen days? 

She tried, however, to swing herself in line with 
217 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


the others. “ Shall you go before Christmas? 
she asked the Captain. 

“ Yes. And Miss Gray had asked me to dine 
with her. You can see what I am missing — my 
first American Christmas.” 

“ We are going to have a little tree,” said Dru- 
silla, “ and ask all of you to come and hang pres¬ 
ents on it.” 

Jean had always had a tree at Christmas time. 
From the earliest days of her remembrance, there 
had been set in the window of the little drawing 
room, a young pine brought from the Doctor’s 
country-place far up in Maryland. On Christmas 
Eye it had been lighted and the doors thrown open. 
Jean could see her mother now, shining on one side 
of it, and herself coming in, in her nurse’s arms. 

There had been a star at the top, and snow pow¬ 
dered on the branches — and gold and silver balls 
— and her presents piled beneath — always a doll 
holding out its arms to her. There had been the 
first Rosie-Dolly, more beloved than any other, 
made of painted cloth, with painted yellow curls, 
and dressed in pink with a white apron. Rosie 
was a wreck of a doll now, her features blurred 
and her head bald with the years —but Jean still 
loved her, with something left over of the adoration 
of her little girl days. Then there was Maude, 
named in honor of the lovely lady who had played 
a Peter Pan,” and the last doll that Jean’s mother 
218 


JEAN-JOAN 


had given her. Maude had an outfit for every 
character in which Jean had seen her prototype — 
there were the rowan berries and shawl of “Bab¬ 
bie,” the cap and jerkin of “ Peter Pan,” the feath¬ 
ers and spurs of “ Chantecler ”— such a trunkful, 
and her dearest mother had made them all —. 

And Daddy! How Daddy had played Santa 
Claus, in red cloth and fur with a wide belt and 
big boots, every year, even last year when she was 
nineteen and ready to make her bow to society. 
And now he might never play Santa Claus again — 
for before Christmas had come he would be on the 
high seas, perhaps on the other side of the seas — 
at the edge of No Man's Land. And there would 
be no Star, no dolls, no gold and silver balls — foi 
the nation which had given Santa Claus to the 
world, had robbed the world of peace and of good¬ 
will. It had robbed the world of Christmas! 

She came back to hear the Captain saying, “ 1 
want you to sing for me — Drusilla.” 

They rose and went into the other room. 

“Tired, dearest?” Derry asked, as he found a 
chair for her and drew his own close to it. 

“ No, I am not tired,” she told him, “ but I hate 
to think that Captain Hewes must go.” 

“ I’d give the world to be going with him.” 

Her hands were clasped tightly. “Would you 
give me up? ” 

“You? I should never have to give you up, 
219 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


thank God. You would never hold me back.” 

u Shouldn’t I, Derry? ” 

u My precious, don’t I know? Better than you 
know yourself.” 

Drusilla and the Captain were standing by the 
wide window which looked out over the city. The 
snow came down like a curtain, shutting out the 
sky. 

“ Do you think she loves him? ” Jean asked. 

“ I hope so,” heartily. 

“ But to send him away so — easily. Oh, Derry, 
she can’t care.” 

“ She is sending him not easily, but bravely. 
Margaret let her husband go like that.” 

“ Would you want me to let you go like that, 
Derry? ” 

“ Yes, dear.” 

“ Wouldn’t you want me to — cry? ” 

“Perhaps. Just a little tear. But I should 
want you to think beyond the tears. I should want 
you to know that for us there can be no real separa¬ 
tion. You are mine to the end of all eternity, 
Jean.” 

He believed it. And she believed it. And per¬ 
haps, after all, it was true. There must be a very 
separate and special Heaven for those who love 
once, and never love again. 

Drusilla came away from the window to sing for 
them — a popular song. But there was much in it 
220 


JEAN-JOAN 


to intrigue the imagination — a vision of the heroic 
Maid — a hint of the Marseillaise — and so the na¬ 
tions were singing it —. 

“ Jeanne d’Arc, Jeanne d’Arc, 

Oh, soldats! entendez vous? 

‘Allons, enfants de la patrie,’ 

Jeanne d’Arc, la victoire est pour vous—” 

There was a new note in Drusilla’s voice. A 
note of tears as well as of triumph — and at the 
last word she broke down and covered her face 
with her hands. 

In the sudden stillness, the Captain strode across 
the room and took her hands away from her face. 

“ Drusilla,” he said before them all, “ do you 
care as much as that? ” 

She told him the truth in her fine, frank fashion. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I do care, Captain, but I want 
you to go.” 

“And oh, Derry, I am so glad she cried,” Jean 
said, when they were driving home through the 
snow-storm. “ It made her seem so — human.” 

Derry drew her close. “ Such a thing couldn’t 
have happened,” he said, “ at any other time. Do 
you suppose that a few years ago any of us would 
have been keyed up to a point where a self-con¬ 
tained Englishman could have asked a girl, in the 
face of three other people, if she loved him, and 
have had her answer like that? It was beautiful, 
beautiful, Jean-Joan —” 

221 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 

She held her breath. “ Why do you call me 
that? ” 

“ She lived for France. You shall live for 
France — and me.” 

The snow shut them in. There was the warmth 
of the car, of the fur rugs and Derry’s fur coat, 
Jean’s own velvet wrap of heavenly blue, the fra¬ 
grance of her violets. Somewhere far away men 
were fighting — there was the mud and cold of the 
trenches — somewhere men were suffering. 

She tried not to think of them. Her cheek was 
against Derry’s. She was safe — safe. 

Captain Hewes went away that night Drusilla’s 
accepted lover. He put a ring on her finger and 
kissed her “ good-bye,” and with his head high faced 
the months that he must be separated from her. 

“ I will come back, dear woman.” 

“ I shall see you before that,” she told him. “ I 
am coming over.” 

“ I shall hate to have you in it all. But it will 
be Heaven to see you.” 

When he had gone, Drusilla went into Marion 
Gray’s study. 

Marion looked up from her work. She was cor¬ 
recting manuscript, pages and pages of it. “ Well, 
do you want me to congratulate you, Drusilla? ” 

Drusilla sat down. “ I don’t know, Marion. He 
222 


JEAN-JOAN 


is the biggest and finest man I have ever met, 
but —” 

“ But what? ” 

“ I wanted love to come to me differently, as it 
has come to Jean and Derry—without any doubts. 
I wanted to be sure. And I am not sure. I only 
know that I couldn’t let him go without making 
him happy.” 

“ Then is it — pity? ” 

“ No. He means more to me than that. But I> 
gave way to an impulse — the music, and his saC 
eyes. And then I cried, and he came up tc me — 
fancy a man coming up before you all like that — r 

“ It was quite the most dramatic moment,” said 
the lady who wrote. “ Quite unbelievable in real 
life. One finds those things occasionally in fic¬ 
tion.” 

“ It was as if there were just two of us alone in 
the world,” Drusilla confessed, “ and I said what I 
did because I simply couldn’t help it. And it was 
true at the moment; I think it is always going to 
be true. If I marry him I shall care a great deal. 
But it has not come to me just as I had — dreamed.” 

“ Nothing is like our dreams,” said Marion, and 
dropped her pen. “ That’s why I write. I can 
give my heroine all the bliss for which she yearns.” 

Drusilla stood up. “ You mustn’t misunderstand 
me, Marion. I am very happy in the thought of my 
22 3 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


good friend, of my great lover. It is only that it 
hasn't quite measured up to what I expected.” 

“ Nothing measures up to what we expect.” 

“ And now Jean belongs to Derry, and I belong 
to my gallant and good Captain. I shall thank 
God before I sleep tonight, Marion.” 

“ And he’ll thank God —.” 

They kissed each other, and Drusilla went to 
bed, and the next morning she wrote a letter to her 
Captain, which he carried next to his heart and 
kissed when he got a chance. 


2 m 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE WHITE CAT 

Derry, going quietly to his room that night, did 
not stop at the General’s door. He did not want 
to speak to Hilda, he did not want to speak to any¬ 
one, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts of 
Jean and that perfect ride with her through the 
snow. 

He was, therefore, a little impatient to find 
Bronson waiting up for him. 

“ I thought I told you to go to bed, Bronson.” 

“ You did, sir, but — but I have something to tell 
you.” 

“ Can’t it wait until morning? ” 

“ I should like to say it now, Mr. Derry.” The 
old man’s eyes were anxious. “It’s about your 
father —” 

“ Father? ” 

“ Yes. I told you I didn’t like the nurse.” 

“ Miss Merritt? Well? ” 

“ Perhaps I’d better get you to bed, sir. It’s a 
rather long story, and you’d be more comfortable.” 

“ You’d be more comfortable, you mean, Bron¬ 
son.” The im tient note had gone out of Derry's 
225 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 

voice. Temporarily he pigeon-holed his thoughts 
of Jean, and gave his attention to this servant 
who was more than a servant, more even than a 
friend. To Derry, Bronson wore a sort of halo, 
like a good old saint in an ancient woodcut. 

Propped up at last among his pillows, pink 
from his bath and in pale blue pajamas, Derry 
listened to what the old man had to say to him. 

Bronson sat on the edge of a straight-backed 
chair with Muffin at his knees. “From the first 
day I had a feeling that she wasn’t just— 
straight. I don’t know why, but I felt it. She 
had one way with the General and another with 
us servants. But I didn’t mind that, not much, 
until she went into your mother’s room.” 

“My mother’s room?” sharply. “What was she 
doing there, Bronson?” 

“That’s what I am going to tell you, sir. You 
know that place on the third floor landing, where 
I sits and looks through at your father when he 
ain’t quite himself, and won’t let me come in his 
room? Well, there was one night that I was 
there and watched her—” 

Derry’s quick frown rebuked him. “You 
shouldn’t have done that, Bronson.” 

“I had a feeling, sir, that things were going 
wrong, and that the General wasn’t always him¬ 
self. I shouldn’t ever have said a thing to you, Mr. 
Derry,” earnestly, “if I hadn’t seen what I did.” 

226 


THE WHITE CAT 


He cleared his throat. “ That first night I saw 
her open the door between your father’s room and 
the sitting room, and she did it careful and quiet 
like a person does when they don’t want anybody 
to know. The sitting room was dark, but I went 
down and stood behind the curtain in the General’s 
door, and I could see through, and there was a light 
in your mother’s room and a screen set before it.” 

“ I took a big chance, but I slid into the sitting 
room, and I could see her on the other side of the 
screen, and she had opened the safe behind the 
Chinese scroll, and she was trying on your mother’s 
diamonds.” 

“ What!” 

Bronson nodded solemnly. “ Yes, sir, she had 
’em on her head and her neck and her fingers —.” 

“ You don’t mean — that she took anything.” 

“ Oh, no, sir, she’s no common thief. But she 
looked at herself in the glass and strutted up and 
down, up and down, up and down, bowing and 
smiling like a — fool.” 

“ Then the telephone rang, and I had to get out 
pretty quick, before she came to answer it. I went 
to bed, but I didn’t sleep much, and the next night 
I watched her again. I watch every night.” 

Derry considered the situation. “ I don’t like it 
at all, Bronson. But perhaps it was just a woman’s 
vanity. She wanted to see how she looked.” 

“ Well, she’s seen — and she ain’t going to be 
227 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

satisfied with that. She’ll want to wear them all 
the time —” 

“ Of course, she can’t, Bronson. She isn’t as 
silly as to think she can.” 

“ Perhaps not, sir.” Bronson opened his lips 
and shut them again. 

“ There’s something else, sir,” he said, after a 
pause. “ I’ve found out that she’s giving the Gen¬ 
eral things to drink.” 

“Hilda?” Derry said, incredulously. “ Oh, 
surely not, Bronson. The Doctor has given her 
strict orders —.” 

u She’s got a bottle behind the books, and she 
pours him a glass right after dinner, and another 
before he goes to sleep, and — and — you know he’d 
sell his soul for the stuff, Mr. Derry.” 

Derry did know. It had been the shame of all 
his youthful years that his father should stoop to 
subterfuge, to falsehood, to everything that was for¬ 
eign to his native sense of honor and honesty, for a 
taste of that which his abnormal appetite demanded. 

“ If anyone had told me but you, Bronson, I 
wouldn’t have believed it.” 

“ I didn’t want to tell you, but I had to. You 
can see that, can’t you, sir? ” 

“ Yes. But how in the world did she know where 
the diamonds w r ere? ” 

“ He gave her his key one day when I was there 
— made me get it off his ring. He sent her for your 
228 


THE WHITE CAT 


picture — the one that your mother used to wear*. 
I thought then that he wasn't quite right in his 
head, with the fever and all, or he would have sent 
me. But a woman like that —” 

“Dr. McKenzie has the greatest confidence in 
her.” 

“I know, sir, and she’s probably played square 
with him — but she ain’t playing square here.” 

“ It can’t go on, ot course. I shall have to tell 
McKenzie.” 

Bronson protested nervously. “ If she puts her 
word against mine, who but you will believe me? 
I’d rather you saw it yourself, Mr. Derry, and left 
my name out of it.” 

“ But I can’t sit on the steps and w T atch.” 

“ No, sir, but you can come in unexpected from 
the outside — when I flash on the third floor light 
for you.” 

Derry slept little that night. Ahead of him 
stretched twenty-four hours of suspense — twenty- 
four hours in which he would have to think of this 
thing which was hidden in the big house in which 
his mother had reigned. 

In the weeks since he had met Jean, he had man¬ 
aged to thrust it into the back of his mind — he 
had, indeed, in the midst of his happiness, forgot¬ 
ten his bitterness, his sense of injustice — he won¬ 
dered if he had not in a sense forgotten his patri¬ 
otism. Life had seemed so good, his moments with 
229 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

Jean so transcendent — there had been no room for 
anything else. 

But now he was to take up again the burden 
which he had dropped. He was to consider his 
problem from a new angle. How could he bring 
Jean here? How could he let her clear young eyes 
rest on that which he and his mother had seen? 
How could he set, as it were, all of this sordidness 
against her sweetness? Money could, of course, do 
much. But his promise held him to watchfulness, 
to brooding care, to residence beneath this roof. 
His bride would be the General’s daughter, she 
would live in the GeneraFs house, she would live, 
too, beneath the shadow of the GeneraFs tragic 
fault. 

Yet — she was a brave little thing. He com¬ 
forted himself with that. And she loved him. He 
slept at last with a desperate prayer on his lips that 
some new vision might be granted him on the mor¬ 
row. 

But the first news that came over the telephone 
was of Jean’s flitting. “ Daddy wants me to go 
with him to our old place in Maryland. He has 
some business which takes him there, and we shall 
be gone two days.” 

“ Two days? ” 

“ Yes. We are to motor up.” 

“ Can’t I go with you? ” 

I think — Daddy wants me to himself. You 
230 


THE WHITE GAT 

won’t mind, Derry — some day you'll have me all 
the time.” 

“ But I need you now, dearest.” 

“ Do you really,” delightedly. “ It doesn’t seem 
as if you could —” 

“ If you knew how much.” 

She could not know. He hung up the receiver. 
The day stretched out before him, blank. 

But it passed, of course. And Hilda, having 
slept her allotted number of hours, was up in time 
to superintend the serving of the General's dinner. 
Later, Derry stopped at the door to say that he was 
going to the theater and might be called there. 
The General, propped against his pillows and 
clothed in a gorgeous mandarin coat, looked wrin¬ 
kled and old. The ruddiness had faded from his 
cheeks, and he was much thinner. 

Hilda, sitting by the little table, showed all the 
contrast of youth and bloom. Her long hands lay 
flat on the table. Derry had a fantastic feeling, as 
if a white cat watched him under the lamp. 

u Are you going alone, son? ” the General asked. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Why don’t you take a girl? ” craftily. 

Derry smiled. 

“ The only girl I should care to take is out of 
town.” 

The white cat purred. “ Lucky girl to be the 
only one.” 


231 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

Derry’s manner stiffened. “ You are good to 
think so.” 

After Derry had gone, Hilda said, “ You see, it is 
Jean McKenzie. The Doctor said that he and Jean 
would be up in Maryland for a day or two. She 
has a good time. She doesn’t know what it means 
to be poor, not as I know it. She doesn’t know 
what it means to go without the pretty things that 
women long for. You wouldn’t believe it, General, 
but when I was a little girl, I used to stand in 
front of shop windows and wonder if other girls 
really wore the slippers and fans and parasols. 
And when I went to Dr. McKenzie’s, and saw Jean 
in her silk dressing gowns, and her pink slippers 
and her lace caps, she seemed to me like a lady in 
a play. I’ve worn my uniforms since I took my 
nurse’s training, and before that I wore the uni¬ 
form of an Orphans’ Home. I — I don’t know why 
I am telling you all this — only it doesn’t seem 
quite fair, does it? ” 

He had all of an old man’s sympathy for a lovely 
woman in distress. He had all of any man’s desire 
to play Cophetua. 

“ Look here,” he said. “ You get yourself a pink 
parasol and a fan and a silk dress. I’d like to see 
you wear them.” 

She shook her head. “ What should I do with 
things like that?” Her voice had a note of wist¬ 
fulness. “ A woman in my position must be careful.” 

232 


THE WHITE CAT 

“ But I want you to have the things,” he per¬ 
sisted. 

“ I shouldn’t have a place to wear them,” sadly. 
“ No, you are very good to offer them. But I 
mustn’t.” 

The General slept after that. Hilda read under 
the lamp — a white cat watched by a little old ter¬ 
rier on the stairs! 

And now the big house was very still. There 
were lights in the halls of the first and second 
floors. Bronson crouching in the darkness of the 
third landing was glad of the company of the 
painted lady on the stairs. He knew she would 
approve of what he was doing. For years he had 
served her in such matters as this, saving her hus¬ 
band from himself. When Derry was too small, 
too ignorant of evil, too innocent, to be told things, 
it was to the old servant that she had come. 

He remembered a certain night. She was young 
then and new to her task. She and the General had 
been dining at one of the Legations. She was in 
pale blue and very appealing. When Bronson had 
opened the door, she had come in alone. 

“ Oh, the General, the General, Bronson,” she had 
said. “ We’ve got to go after him.” 

She was shaking with the dread of it, and Bron¬ 
son had said, “ Hadn’t you better wait, ma’am? ” 

“ I mustn’t. We stopped at the hotel as we came 
by, and he said he would run in and get a New York 
233 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


paper. And we waited, and we waited, and he 
didn’t come out again, and at last. I sent McChes- 
ney in, and he couldn’t find him. And then I went 
and sat in the corridor, thinking he might pass 
through. It isn’t pleasant to sit alone in the corri¬ 
dor with the men — staring at you — at night. 
And then I asked the man at the door if he had 
seen him, and he said, ‘yes,’ that he had called a 
cab, and then I came home.” 

They had gone out again together, with Bronson, 
who was young and strong, taking the place of 
the coachman, McChesney, because Mrs. Drake did 
not care to have the other servants see her hus¬ 
band at times like these. “ You know how good he 
is,” had been her timid claim on him from the first, 
“ and you know how hard he tries.” And because 
Bronson knew, and because he had helped her like 
the faithful squire that he was, she had trusted him 
more and more with this important but secret busi¬ 
ness. 

She had changed her dress for something dark, 
and she had worn a plain dark hat and coat. She 
had not cried a tear and she would not cry. She 
had been very brave as they travelled a beaten path, 
visiting the places which the General frequented, 
going on and on until they came to the country, and 
to a farm-house where they found him turning 
night into day, having roused the amazed inmates 
to ask for breakfast. 


234 


THE WHITE CAT 


He had paid them well for it, and was ready to 
( set forth again with the dawn when his wife drove 
in. 

“ My dear,” he had said, courteously, as his little 
wife’s face peered out at him from the carriage, 
“ you shouldn’t have come.” 

Sobered for the moment, he had made a hand¬ 
some figure, as he stood with uncovered head, his 
dark hair in a thick curl between his eyes. The 
morning was warm and he carried his overcoat on 
his arm. His patent leather shoes and the broad¬ 
cloth of his evening clothes showed the dust and 
soil of his walk through the fields. He had evi¬ 
dently dismissed his cab at the edge of the city and 
had come cross-country. 

His wife had reached out her little hand to him. 
“ I came because I was lonely. The house seems so 
big when you are — away —” 

It had wrung Bronson’s heart to see her smiling. 
Yet she had always met the General with a smile 
and with the reminder of her need of him. There 
had been never a complaint, never a rebuke — at 
these moments. When he was himself, she strove 
with him against his devils. But to strive when he 
was not himself, would be to send him away from 
her. 

Her hands were clasped tightly, and her voice 
shook as she talked on the way back to the husband 
who seemed so unworthy of the love she gave. 

235 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


Yet slie had not thought him unworthy. “ If I 
can only save him/’ she had said so many times. 
“ Oh, Bronson, I mustn’t let him go down and 
down, with no one who loves him to hold him back.” 

In the years that had followed, Bronson had seen 
her grow worn and weary, but never hopeless. He 
had seen her hair grow gray, he had seen the light 
go out of her face so that she no longer smiled as 
she had smiled in the picture. 

But she had never given up the fight. Not even 
at the last moment. “ You will stay with him, 
Bronson, and help Derry.” 

And now this other woman had come to undo all 
the work that his beloved mistress had done. And 
there in the shadowed room she was weaving her 
spells. 

Outside, snug against the deadly cold in his warm 
closed car, Derry waited alone for Bronson’s signal. 

There was movement at last in the shadowed 
room. The General spoke from the bed. Hilda 
answered him, and rose. She arranged a little tray 
with two glasses and a plate of biscuits. Then she 
crossed the room towards the bookcase. 

Bronson reached up his hand and touched the 
button which controlled the lights on the third 
floor. He saw Hilda raise a startled head as the 
faint click reached her. She listened for a moment, 
and he withdrew himself stealthily up and out of 
sight. If she came into the hall she might see him 
236 


THE WHITE CAT 


on the stairs. He had done what he could. He 
would leave the rest to Derry. 

“ What’s the matter? ” the General asked. 

“ I thought I heard a sound — but there’s no one 
up. This is our hour, isn’t it? ” 

She brought the bottle out from behind the 
books. Then she came and stood by the side of the 
bed. 

“ Will you drink to my happiness, General ? ” 

She was very handsome. “ To our happiness,” 
he said, eagerly, and unexpectedly, as he took the 
glass. 

Hilda, pouring out more wine for herself, stood 
suddenly transfixed. Derry spoke from the thresh¬ 
old. “ Dr. McKenzie has asked you repeatedly 
not to give my father wine, Miss Merritt.” 

He was breathing quickly. His hat was in his 
hand and he wore his fur coat. “ Why are you giv¬ 
ing it to him against the Doctor’s orders? ” 

The General interposed. “ Don’t take that tone 
with Miss Merritt, Derry. I asked her to get it 
for me, and she obeyed my orders. What’s the 
matter with that? ” 

“Dr. McKenzie said, explicitly, that you were 
not to have it.” 

“ Dr. McKenzie has nothing to do with it. You 
may tell him that for me. I am not his patient 
any longer.” 

“ Father —” 


237 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


i( Certainly not. Do you think I am going to take 
orders from McKenzie — or from you? ” 

“ But, Miss Merritt is his nurse, under his or¬ 
ders.” 

“ She is not going to be his nurse hereafter. I 
have other plans for her.” 

Derry stood staring, uncomprehending. “ Other 
plans —” 

“ I have asked her to be my wife.” 

Oh, lovely painted lady on the stairs, has it come 
to this? Have your prayers availed no more than 
this? Have the years in which you sacrificed your¬ 
self, in which you sacrificed your son, counted no 
more than this? 

Derry felt faint and sick. “ You can’t mean it, 
Dad.” 

“ I do mean it. I — am a lonely man, Derry. A 
disappointed man. My wife is dead. My son is a 
slacker —” 

It was only the maudlin drivel of a man not 
responsible for what he was saying. But Derry 
had had enough. He took a step forward and 
stood at the foot of the bed. “ I wouldn’t go 
any farther if I were you, Dad. I’ve not been a 
slacker. I have never been a slacker. I am not a 
coward. I have never been a coward. I am going 
to tell you right now why I am not in France. Do 
you think I should have stayed out of it for a mo¬ 
ment if it hadn’t been for you? Has it ever 
238 


THE WHITE CAT 


crossed your mind that if you had been half a man 
I might have acted like a whole one? Have you 
ever looked back at the years and seen me going 
out into the night to follow you and bring you 
back? I am not whining. I loved you, and I 
wanted to do it; but it wasn’t easy. And I should 
still be doing it; but of late you’ve said things that 
I can’t forgive. I’ve stood by you because I gave 
a promise to my mother — that I wouldn’t leave 
you. And I’ve stayed. But now I shan’t try any 
more. I am going to France. I am going to fight. 
I am not your son, sir. I am the son of my mother.” 

Then the General said what he would never have 
said if he had been himself. 

“If you are not my son, then, by God, you shan’t 
have any of my money.” 

“I don’t want it. Do you think that I do? I 
shall get out of here tonight, and I shan’t come back. 
There is only one thing that I want besides my own 
personal traps — and that is my mother’s picture 
on the stairs.” 

The General was drawing labored breaths. 
“ Your mother’s picture — ? ” 

“ Yes, it has no place here. Do you think for an 
instant that you can meet her eyes? ” 

There was a look of fright on the drawn old face. 
“ I am not well, give me the wine.” 

Derry reached for the bottle. “ He shall not 
have it.” 


239 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Hilda came up to him swiftly. “ Can’t you see? 
He must. Look at him.” 

Derry looked and surrendered. Then covered his 
face with his hands. 

All that night, Derry, trying to pack, with Bron¬ 
son in agitated attendance, was conscious of the 
sinister presence of Hilda in the house. There was 
the opening and shutting of doors, her low orders in 
the halls, her careful voice at the telephone, and 
once the sound of her padded steps as she passed 
Derry’s room on her way to her own. The new 
doctor came and went. Hilda sent, at Derry’s re¬ 
quest, a bulletin of the patient’s condition. The 
General must be kept from excitement; otherwise 
there was not reason for alarm. 

But Derry was conscious, as the night wore on, 
and Bronson left him, and he sat alone, of more 
than the physical evidences of Hilda’s presence; he 
was aware of the spiritual effect of her sojourn 
among them. She had stolen from them all some¬ 
thing that was fine and beautiful. From Derry his 
faith in his father. From the General his con¬ 
stancy to his lovely wife. The structure of ideals 
which Derry’s mother had so carefully reared for 
the old house had been wrecked by one who had 
first climbed the stairs in the garb of a sister of 
mercy. 

He saw his father’s future. Hilda, cold as ice, 
240 


THE WHITE CAT 


setting his authority aside. He saw the big house, 
the painted lady smiling no more on the stairs. 
Hilda’s strange friends filling the rooms, the Gen¬ 
eral’s men friends looking at them askance, his 
mother’s friends staying away. 

Poor old Dad, poor old Dad. All personal feel¬ 
ing was swept away in the thought of what might 
come to his father. Yet none the less his own path 
lay straight and clear before him. The time had 
come for him to go. 



BOOK TWO 


Through the Crack 

I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars! ” the Tin 
Soldier cried as loud as he could, and he threw himself from 
the shelf. . . . 

What could have become of him? The old man looked and 
the little boy looked. “ I shall find him,” the old man said, 
but he did not find him. For the Tin Soldier had fallen through 
a crack in the floor, and there he lay as in an open grave. 



t 



CHAPTER XVIII 


THE BROAD HIGHWAY 

The Doctor’s house in Maryland was near Wood- 
stock, and from the rise of the hill where it stood 
one could see the buildings of the old Jesuit Col¬ 
lege, and the river which came so soon to the Bay. 

In his boyhood the priests had been great friends 
of Bruce McKenzie. While of a different faith, he 
had listened eagerly to the things they had to tell 
him, these wise men, the pioneers of missionary 
work in many lands, teachers and scholars. His 
imagination had been fired by their tales of devo¬ 
tion, and he had many arguments with his Cove¬ 
nanter grandfather, to whom the gold cross on the 
top of the college had been the sign and symbol of 
papacy. 

“ But, grandfather, the things we believe aren’t 
so very different, and I like to pray in their chapel.” 

“ Why not pray in your own kirk? ” 

“ It’s so bare.” 

“ There’s nothing to distract your thoughts.” 

“ And I like the singing, and the lights and the 
candles —” 

“ We need no candles; we have light enough in 
our souls.” 


245 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


But Bruce had loved the smell of the incense, and 
the purple and red of the robes, and, seeing it all 
through the golden haze of the lights, his sense of 
beauty had been satisfied, as it was not satisfied in 
his own plain house of worship. 

Yet it had been characteristic of the boy as it 
was of the man that neither kirk nor chapel held 
him, and he had gone through life liking each a 
little, but neither overmuch. 

Something of this he tried to express to Jean as, 
arriving at Woodstock in the early afternoon, they 
passed the College. “ I might have been a priest,” 
he said, “ if I hadn’t been too much of a Puritan or 
a Pagan. I am not sure which held me back —” 

Jean shuddered. “ How can people shut them¬ 
selves away from the world? ” 

“ They have a world of their own, my dear,” said 
the Doctor, thoughtfully, “ and Pm not sure that 
it isn’t as interesting as our own.” 

“ But there isn’t love in it,” said Jean. 

“ There’s love that carries them above self — and 
that’s something.” 

“ It is something, but it isn’t much,” said his 
small daughter, obstinately. “ I don’t want to love 
the world, Daddy. I want to love Derry —” 

The Doctor groaned. “ I thought I had escaped 
him, for a day.” 

“ You will never escape him,” was the merciless 
rejoinder, but she kissed him to make up for it. 

246 


THE BROAD HIGHWAY 


In spite of the fact of her separation for the mo* 
ment from her lover, she had enjoyed the ride. 
There had been much wind, and a little snow on 
the way. But now the air was clear, with a sort 
of silver clearness — the frozen river was gray 
green between its banks, there were blue shadows 
flung by the bare trees. As they passed the Col¬ 
lege, a few black-frocked fathers and scholastics 
paced the gardens. 

Jean wished that Derry were there to see it all. 
It was to her a place of many memories. Most of 
the summers of her little girlhood had been spent 
there, with now and then a Christmas holiday. 

The house did not boast a heating plant, but 
there were roaring open fires in all the rooms, ex- 
cept in the Connollys’ sitting room, which was 
w r armed by a great black stove. 

The Connollys were the caretakers. They occu¬ 
pied the left wing of the house, and worked the 
farm. They were both good Catholics, and Mrs. 
Connolly looked after the little church at the cross¬ 
roads corner, where the good priests came from the 
College every week to say Mass. She was a faith¬ 
ful, hard-working, pious soul, with her mind just 
now very much on her two sons who had enlisted 
at the first call for men, and were now in France. 

She talked much about them to Jean, who came 
into the kitchen to watch her get supper. The deep, 
dark, low-ceiled room was lighted by an oil lamp. 

247 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


TW rocking chair in which Jean sat had a turkey- 
red cushion, and there was another turkey-red 
cushion in the rocking chair on the other side of 
the cookstove. They ate their meals on the table 
under the lamp. It was only when guests were in 
the house that the dining room was opened. 

The Doctor and Jim Connolly were at the barn, 
where were kept two fat mules, a fat little horse, a 
fat little cow, and a pair of fat pigs. There were 
also a fat house dog, and a brace of plump pussies, 
for the Connollys were a plump and comfortable 
couple who wanted everything about them comfort¬ 
able, and who had had little to worry them until 
the coming of the war. 

Yet even the war could not shake Mrs. Con¬ 
nolly’s faith in the rightness of things. 

“ I was glad to have our country get into it, and 
to have my sons go. If they had stayed at home, 
I shouldn’t have felt satisfied.” 

“ Didn’t it nearly break your heart? ” 

Mrs. Connolly, beating eggs for an omelette, 
shook her head. “ Women’s hearts don’t break over 
brave men, Miss Jean. It is the sons who are weak 
and wayward who break their mothers’ hearts — 
not the ones that go to war.” 

She poured the omelette into a pan. “ When I 
have a bad time missing them, I remember how the 
Mother of God gave her blessed Son to the world. 
And He set the example, to give ourselves to save 
248 


THE BROAD HIGHWAY 

others. No, I don’t want my boys back until the 
war is oyer.” 

Jean said nothing. She rocked back and forth 
and thought about what Mary Connolly had said. 
One of the fat pussies jumped on her lap and 
purred. It was all very peaceful, all as it had been 
siixco some other cook made omelettes for the little 
aristocrat of an Irish grandmother who would not 
under any circumstances have sat in the kitchen on 
terms of familiarity with a dependent. The world 
had progressed much in democracy since those days. 
Those who had fought in this part of the country 
for liberty and equality had not really known it. 
They had seen the Vision, but it was to be given to 
their descendants to realize it. 

Jean rocked and rocked. “ I hate war,” she said, 
suddenly. “ I didn’t until Daddy said he was go¬ 
ing, and then it seemed to come — so near — all the 
time I am trying to push the thought of it away. 
I wouldn’t tell him, of course. But I don’t want 
him to go.” 

“No, I wouldn’t tell him. We women may be 
scared to death, but it ain’t the time to tell our men 
that we are scared.” 

“ Are you scared to death, Mrs. Connolly? ” 

The steady eyes met hers. “ Sometimes, in the 
night, when I think of the wet and cold, and the 
wounded groaning under the stars. But when the 
morning comes, I cook the breakfast and get Jim 
249 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


off, and he don’t know but that I am as cheerful as 
one of our old hens, and then I go oyer to the church, 
and tell it all to the blessed Virgin, and I am ready 
to write to my boys of how proud I am, and how 
fine they are — and of every little tiny thing that 
has happened on the farm.” 

Thus the heroic Mary Connolly — type of a mil¬ 
lion of her kind in America — of more than a mil¬ 
lion of her kind throughout the world — hiding her 
fears deep in her heart that her men might go 
cheered to battle. 

The omelette was finished, and the Doctor and 
Jim Connolly had come in. “ The stars are out,” 
the Doctor said. “ After supper we’ll walk a hit.” 

Jean was never to forget that walk with her 
father. It was her last long walk with him before 
he went to France, her last intimate talk. It was 
very cold, and he took her arm, the snow crunched 
under their feet. 

Faintly the chimes of the old College came up to 
them. “ Nine o’clock,” said the Doctor. “ Think 
of all the years I’ve heard the chimes. I have lived 
over half a century — and my father before me 
heard them — and they rang in my grandfather’s 
time. Perhaps they will ring in the ears of my 
grandchildren, Jean.” 

They had stopped to listen, but now they went 
on. “ Do you know what they used to say to me 
when I was a little boy? 

250 


THE BROAD HIGHWAY 


6 The Lord watch 
Between thee and — me —’" 

“ My mother and I used to repeat it together at 
nine o'clock, and when I brought your mother here 
for our honeymoon — that first night we, too, stood 
and listened to the chimes — and I told her what 
they said. 

“ Men drift away from these things," he con¬ 
tinued, with something of an effort. “ I have 
drifted too far. But, Jean, will you always remeim 
her this, that when I am at my best, I come back to 
the things my mother taught her boy ? If anything 
should happen, you will remember? " 

She clung to his arm. She had no words. 
Never again was she to hear the chimes without 
that poignant memory of her father begging her to 
remember the best —. 

“ I have been thinking," he said, out of a long 
silence, “ of you and Derry. I — I want you to 
marry him, dear, before I go." 

“ Before you go — Daddy —" 

“ Yes. Emily says I have no right to stand in 
the way of your happiness. And I have no right. 
And some day, perhaps, oh, my little Jean, my 
grandchildren may hear the chimes —" 

White and still, she stood with her face upturned 
to the stars. “ Life is so wonderful, Daddy." 

And this time she said it out of a woman's knowl- 
elge of what life was to mean. 

251 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


They went in, to find that the Connollys had re¬ 
tired. Jean slept in a great feather-bed. And all 
the night the chimes in the College tower struck the 
hours — 

In the morning, Jean went oyer to the church 
with Mrs. Connolly. It was Saturday, and things 
must be made ready for the services the next day. 
Jean had been taught as a child to kneel reverently 
while Mrs. Connolly prayed. To sit quietly in a 
pew while her good friend did the little offices of 
the altar. 

Jean had always loved to sit there, to wonder 
about the rows of candles and the crucifix, to won¬ 
der about the Sacred Heart, and St. Agnes with 
the lamb, and St. Anthony who found things when 
you lost them, and St. Francis in the brown frock 
with the rope about his waist, and why Mrs. Con¬ 
nolly never touched any of the sacred vessels with 
bare hands. 

But most of all she had wondered about that be¬ 
nignant figure in the pale blue garments who stood 
in a niche, with a light burning at her feet, and 
with a baby in her arms. 

Mary — / 

Faintly as she gazed upon it on this winter 
morning, Jean began to perceive the meaning of 
that figure. Of late many women had said to her, 
“Was my son born for this, to be torn from my 
arms —- to be butchered? ” 

252 


THE BROAD HIGHWAY 


Well, Mary’s son had been torn from her arms — 
butchered — her little son who had lain in a manger 
and whom she had loved as much as any less*wor¬ 
shipped mother,— and he had told the world what 
he thought of sin and injustice and cruelty, and the 
world had hated him because he had set himself 
against these things — and they had killed him, 
and from his death had come the regeneration of 
mankind. 

And now, other men, following him, were setting 
themselves against injustice and cruelty, and they 
were being killed for it. But perhaps their sacri¬ 
fices, too, would be for the salvation of the 
world. Oh, if only it might be for the world’s sal¬ 
vation ! 

She walked quite soberly beside Mrs. Connolly 
back to the house. She took her knitting to the 
kitchen. Mrs. Connolly was knitting socks. “ I 
don’t mind the fighting as much as I do the chance 
of their taking cold. And I’m afraid they won’t 
have the sense to change their socks when they are 
wet. I have sent them pairs and pairs — but they’ll 
never know enough to change — 

“ It is funny how a mother worries about a thing 
like that,” she continued. “ I suppose it is because 
you’ve always worried about their taking cold, and 
you’ve never had to worry much about their being 
killed. I always used to put them to bed with hot 
drinks and hot baths, and a lot of blankets, and I 
253 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

keep thinking that there won’t be anybody to put 
them to bed.” 

Jean knitted a long row, and then she spoke. 
“ Mrs. Connolly, I’m going to be married, before 
Daddy leaves for France.” 

“ I am happy to hear that, my dear.” 

“ I didn’t know it until last night — Daddy wasn’t 
willing. I — I feel as if it couldn’t be really true — 
that I am going to be married, Mrs. Connolly.” 

There was a tremble of her lip and clasping of 
her little hands. 

Mary Connolly laid down her work. “ I guess 
you miss your mother, blessed lamb. I remember 
when she was married. I was young, too, but I 
felt a lot older with my two babies, and Jim and I 
were so glad the Doctor had found a wife. He 
needed one, if ever a man did — for he liked his gay 
good time.” 

“ Daddy?” said Jean, incredulously. It is hard 
for youth to visualize the adolescence of its elders. 
Dr. McKenzie’s daughter beheld in him none of the 
elements of a Lothario. He was beyond the pale 
of romance! He was fifty, which settled at once all 
matters of sentiment! 

“ Indeed, he was gay, my dear, and he had broken 
half the hearts in the county, and then your mother 
came for a visit. She didn’t look in the least like 
you, except that she was small and slender. Her 
254 


THE BROAD HIGHWAY 


hair was dark and her eyes. You have your 
father’s eyes and hair. 

“ But she was so pretty and so loving — and you 
never saw such a honeymoon. They were married 
in the spring, and the orchards were in bloom, and 
your father filled her room with apple blossoms, 
and the first day when Jim drove them up from the 
station, your father carried her in his arms over 
the threshold and up into that room, and when she 
came down, she said, ‘ Mary Connolly, isn’t life — 
wonderful? ’ ” 

“ Did she say that, Mrs. Connolly, really? 
Daddy always teases me when I go into raptures. 
He says that I think everything is wonderful from 
a sunset to a chocolate soda.” 

“ Well, she did, too. Her husband was the most 
wonderful man, and her baby was the most wonder¬ 
ful baby — and her house was the most wonderful 
house. You make me think of her in every way. 
But you won’t have apple blossoms for your honey¬ 
moon, my dear.” 

“No. But, oh, Mrs. Connolly — it won’t make 
any real difference.” 

“Not a bit. And if you’ll come up here, Jim 
and I will promise not to be in the way. Your 
mother said we were never in the way. And I’ll 
serve your meals in front of the sitting-room fire. 
They used to have theirs out of doors. But you’ll 
255 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

Ibe just as much alone, with me and Jim eating in 
the kitchen.” 

It was very easy after that to tell Mrs. Connolly 
all about it. About Derry, and how he had fallen 
in love with her when he had thought she w T as just 
the girl in the Toy Shop. But there were things 
which she did not tell, of the shabby old gentleman 
and of the shadow which had darkened Derry’s life. 

Then when she had finished, Mary Connolly asked 
the thing which everybody asked —“ Why isn’t he 
fighting? ” 

Jean flushed. “ He — lie made a promise to his 
mother.” 

“ I’d never make my boys promise a thing like 
that. And if I did, I’d hope they’d break it.” 

“ Break it? ” tensely. 

u Of course. Their honor’s bigger than anything 
I could ever ask them. And they know it.” 

“ Then you think that Derry ought to break his 
promise? ” 

“ I do, indeed, my dear.” 

“ But —. Oh, Mrs. Connolly, I don’t know 
whether I want him to break it.” 

“ Why not? ” 

With her face hidden. “ I don’t know whether 
I could let him — go.” 

“ You’d let him go. Never fear. When the mo¬ 
ment came, the good Lord would give you 
strength —” 


256 


THE BROAD HIGHWAY 


There were steps outside. Jean leaned over and 
kissed Mary Connolly on the cheek. “ You are 
such a darling — I don’t wonder that my mother 
loved you.” 

“ Well, you’ll always he more than just yourself 
to me,” said Mary. “ You’ll always be your 
mother’s baby. And after I get lunch for you and 
the men I am going back to the church and ask the 
blessed Virgin to intercede for your happiness.” 

So it was while Mary was at church, and the two 
men had gone to town upon some legal matter, that 
dean, left alone, wandered through the house, and 
always before her flitted the happy ghost of the girl 
who had come there to spend her honeymoon. In 
the great south chamber was a picture of her motAer, 
and one of her father as they looked at the time of 
their marriage. Her mother was in organdie with 
great balloon sleeves, and her hair in a Psyche knot. 
She was a slender little thing, and the young doc¬ 
tor’s picture was a great contrast in its blondness 
and bigness. Daddy had worn a beard then, 
pointed, as was the way with doctors of his day, and 
he looked very different, except for the eyes which 
had the same teasing twinkle. 

The window of this room looked out over the or¬ 
chard, the orchard which had been bursting with 
bloom when the bride came. The trees now were 
slim little skeletons, with the faint gold of the west¬ 
ern sky back of them, and there was much snow. 

257 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Yet ®o vivid was Jean’s impression of what had 
been, that she would have sworn her nostrils were 
assailed by a delicate fragrance, that her eyes be¬ 
held wind-blown petals of white and pink. 

The long mirror reflecting her showed her in her 
straight frock of dark blue serge, with the white 
collars and cuffs. The same mirror had reflected 
her mother’s organdie. It, too, had been blue, Mary 
had told her, but blue with such a difference! A 
faint forget-me-not shade, with a satin girdle, and a 
stiff satin collar! 

Two girls, with a quarter of a century between 
them. Yet the mother had laughed and loved, and 
had looked forward to a long life with her gay big 
husband. They had had ten years of it, and then 
there had been just her ghost to haunt the old rooms. 

Jean shivered a little as she went downstairs. 
She found herself a little afraid of the lonely dark¬ 
ening house. She wished that Mary would come. 

Curled up in one of the big chairs, she waited. 
Half-asleep and half-awake, she was aware of shad¬ 
ow-shapes which came and went. Her Scotch great- 
grandfather, the little Irish great-grandmother; her 
copper-headed grandfather, his English wife, her 
own mother, pale and dark-haired and of Huguenot 
strain, her own dear father. 

From each of these something had been given her, 
some fault, some virtue. If any of them had been 
brave, there must have been handed down to her 
258 


THE BROAD HIGHWAY 

some bit of bravery — if any of them had been 
cowards — 

But none of them had been cowards. 

“ We came to a new country ” said the great- 
grandparents. “ There were hardships, hut we 
loved and lived through them —” 

“ The Civil war tore our hearts ” said the grand¬ 
parents. (( Brother hated brother, and friend hated 
friend, hut we loved and lived through it ” 

“ We were not tested,” said her own parents * 
(< You are our child and test has come to you. If 
you are hrave, it will he because we have given to 
you that which came first to us —” 

Jean sat up, wide-awake — “ 1 am not brave” she 
said. 

She stood, after that, at a lower window, match¬ 
ing. Far down the road a big black motor flew 
straight as a crow towards the hill on which the 
Doctor's house stood. It stopped at the gate. A 
man stepped out. Jean gave a gasp, then flew te 
meet him. 

“ Oh, Derry, Derry —” 

He came in and shut the door behind him, took 
her in his arms, kissed her, and kissed her again, 
« I love you,’' he said, “ I love you. I couldn’t stay 
away —” 

It seemed to Jean quite the most wonderful thing 
of all the wonderful things that had happened, that 
he should be here in this old house where her parents 
259 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


had come for their honeymoon — where her own 
honeymoon was so soon to be —. 

She saved that news for him, however. He had 
to tell her first of how he had taken the wrong road 
after he had left Baltimore. He had gone without 
his lunch to get to her quickly. No, he wasn’t hum 
gry, and he was glad Mary Connolly was out, “ I’ve 
so much to say to you.” 

Then, too, she delayed the telling so that he might 
see the farm before darkness fell. She wrapped 
herself in a hooded red cloak in which he thought 
her more than ever adorable. 

The sun rested on the rim of the world, a golden 
disk under a wind-blown sky. It was very cold, but 
she was warm in her red cloak, he in his fur-lined 
-coat and cap. 

She told him about her father’s honeymoon, hug¬ 
ging her own secret close. “ They came here, Derry, 
and it was in May. I wish you could see the place 
in May, with all the appleblooms. 

“ It seems queer, doesn’t it, Derry, to think of 
father honeymooning. He always seems to be mak¬ 
ing fun of things, and one should be serious on a 
honeymoon.” 

She flashed a smile at him and he smiled back. 
“ I shall be very serious on mine.” 

“ Of course. Derry, wouldn’t you like a honey* 
moon here? ” 


260 


THE BROAD HIGHWAY 


“ I should like it anywhere — with you —” 

“ Well/’ she drew a deep breath, “ Daddy says we 
may —” 

“We may what, Jean-Joan? ” 

“ Get married —” 

“ Before he goes? ” 

“ Yes.” 

She leaned forward to get the full effect of his 
surprise, to watch the dawn of his delight. 

But something else dawned. Embarrassment? 
Out of a bewildering silence she heard him say, “ I 
am not sure, dear, that it will be best for us to marry 
before he goes.” 

She had a stunned feeling that, quite unaccount¬ 
ably, Derry was failing her. A shamed feeling that 
she had offered herself and had been rejected. 

Something of this showed in her face. “ My dear, 
my dear,” he said, “ let us go in. I can tell you bet- 
ter there.” 

Once more in the warm sitting room with the door 
shut behind them, he lifted her bodily in his arms. 
“ Don’t you know I want it,” he whispered, tensely. 
“ Tell me that you know —” 

When he set her down, his own face showed the 
stress of his emotion. “ You are always to remem¬ 
ber this,” he said, “ that no matter what happens, I 
am yours, yours — always, till the end of time.” 
Instinctively she felt that this Derry was in some 
261 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


way different from the Derry she had left the day 
before. There was a hint of masterfulness, a touch 
of decision. 

“ Will you remember? ” he repeated, hands tight 
on her shoulders. 

“ Yes,” she said, simply. 

He bent and kissed her. “ Then nothing else will 
matter.” He placed a big chair for her in front of 
the fire, and drew another up in front of it. Bend¬ 
ing forward, he took her hands. “ I am glad I found 
you alone. What luck it was to find you alone! ” 

He tried then to tell her what he had come to telL 
Yet, after all there was much that he left unsaid. 
How could he speak to her of the things he had seen 
in his father’s shadowed house? How fill that deli¬ 
cate mind with a knowledge of that which seemed 
even to his greater sophistication unspeakable? 

So she wondered oyer several matters. “ How 
can he want to marry Hilda? I can’t imagine any 
man wanting Hilda.” 

“ She is handsome in a big fine way.” 

“ But she is not big and fine. She is little and 
mean, but I could never make Daddy see it.” 

He w T ondered if McKenzie would see it now. 

Mary Connolly, coming in through the back door 
to her warm kitchen, heard voices. Standing in the 
dark hall w T hich connected the left wing with the 
house, she could see through into the living room 
where Jean sat with her lover. 

262 


THE BROAD HIGHWAY 


There was much dark wood and the worn red 
velvet — low bookshelves lining the walls, a grand 
piano on a cover by the window. In the dimness 
Jean’s copper head shone like the halo of a saint. 
Mary decided that Derry was “ queer-looking,” until 
gathering courage, she went in and was warmed by 
his smile. 

“ He hasn’t had any lunch, Mary,” Jean told her, 
“ and he wouldn’t let me get any for him.” 

“ I’ll have something in three whisks of a lamb’s 
tail,” said Mary with Elizabethan picturesqueness, 
and away she went on her hospitable mission. 

“ Marrying just now,” said Derry, picking up the 
subject, where he had dropped it, when Mary came 
in, “ is out of the question.” 

“ Did you think that I was marrying you for your 
money? ” 

“ No. But two months’ pay wouldn’t buy a gown 
like this,”— he lifted a fold with his forefinger — 
“ to say nothing of your little shoes.” He dropped 
Ms light tone. “ Oh, my dear, can’t you see? ” 

“ No. I can’t see. Daddy would let us have this 
house, and I have a little money of my own from my 
mother, and — and the Connollys would take care 
pf everything, and we should see the spring come, 
and the summer.” 

He rose and went and stood with his back to 
the fire. “ But I shan’t be here in the spring and 
summer.” 


263 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


She clasped her hands nervously. “ Derry, I 
don’t want you to go.” 

“ You don’t mean that.” 

“ I do. I do. At least not yet. We can be mar¬ 
ried — and have just a little, little month or two — 
and then I’ll let you go — truly.” 

He shook his head. “ I’ve stayed out of it long 
enough. You wouldn’t want me to stay out of it 
any longer, Jean-Joan.” 

“ Yes, I should. Other men can go, but I want to 
keep you — it’s bad enough to give — Daddy —. I 
haven’t anybody. Mary Connolly has her husband, 
but I haven’t anybody —” her voice broke — and 
broke again—. 

He came over and knelt beside her. “Let me 
tell you something,” he said. “ Do you remember 
the night of the Witherspoon dinner? Well, that 
night you cut me dead because you thought I was 
a coward — and I thanked God for the w^omen who 
hated cowards.” 

“ But you weren’t a coward.” 

“ I know, and so I could stand it — could stand 
your scorn and the scorn of the world. But what 
if I stayed out of it now, Jean? 

“What if I stayed out of it now? You and I 
could have our little moment of happiness, while 
other men fought that we might have it. We should 
be living in Paradise, while other men were in Hell. 
I can’t see it, dearest. All these months I have been 
264 


THE BROAD HIGHWAY 


bound. But now, my dear, my dear, do you love 
me enough not to keep me, but to let me go? ” 

There was a beating pause. She lifted wet eyes. 
“ Oh, Derry, darling, I loye you enough — I loye 
you —” 

Thus, in a moment, little Jean McKenzie un¬ 
latched the gate which had shut her into the safe 
and sunshiny garden of pampered girlhood and 
came out upon the broad highway of life, where 
men and women suffer for the sake of those who 
travel with them, sharing burdens and gaining 
strength as they go. 

Dimly, perhaps, she perceived what she had done, 
but it was not given to her to know the things she 
would encounter or the people she would meet. All 
the world was to adventure with her, throughout 
the years, the poor distracted world, dealing death 
and destruction, yet dreaming ever of still waters 
and green pastures. 


265 


CHAPTER XIX 


HILDA SHAKES A TREE 

When Dr. McKenzie and Jim Connolly arrived, 
Derry said apologetically as lie shook hands with 
the Doctor, “ You see, you can’t get rid of me — but 
I have such a lot of things to talk over with you.” 

It was after Jean had gone to bed, however, that 
they had their talk, and before that Derry and Jean 
had walked in the moonlight and had listened to the 
chimes. 

There had, perhaps, never been such a moon. It 
hung in a sky that shimmered from horizon to hori¬ 
zon. Against this shimmering background the col¬ 
lege buildings were etched in black — there was a 
glint of gold as the light caught the icicles and made 
candles of them. 

In the months to come that same moon was to 
sail over the cantonment where Derry slept heavily 
after hard days. It was to sail over the trenches 
of France, where, perhaps, he slept not at all, or 
slept uneasily in the midst of mud and vermin. 
But always when he looked up at it, he was to see 
the Cross on the top of the College, and to hear the 
chimes. 


266 


HILDA SHAKES A TREE 


They talked that night of the things that were 
deep in their hearts. She wanted him to go — yes, 
she wanted him to go, but she was afraid. 

“ If something should happen to you, Derry.” 

u Sometimes I wonder,” he said, in his grave, 
young voice, “ why we are so — afraid. I think we 
have the wrong focus. We want life, even if it 
brings unhappiness, even if it brings suffering, even 
if it brings disgrace. Anything seems better than 
to — die —” 

“ But to have things stop, Derry.” She shud¬ 
dered. “ When there’s so much ahead.” 

“ Perhaps they don’t stop, dear.” 

“ If I could only believe that —” 

“ Why not? Do you remember ‘ Sherwood/ 
where Blondin rides through the forest singing: 

“‘Death, what is death?’ he cried, 

“ ‘ I must ride on —’ ” 

His face was lifted to the golden sky. She was 
never to forget the look upon it. And with a great 
ache and throb of passionate renunciation, she told 
herself that it was for this that the men of her gen¬ 
eration had been born, that they might fight againsfc 
the £)owers of darkness for the things of the spirit. 

She lay awake a long time that night, thinking 
it out. Of how she had laughed at other women, 
scolded, said awful things to them of how their 
cowardice was holding the world back. She had 
267 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


thought she understood, but she had not under¬ 
stood. It was giving your own — your own, w T hich 
was the test. Oh , let those who had none of their 
own to give keep silent. 

With her breath almost stopping she thought of 
those glorious young souls riding on and on through 
infinite space, the banner of victory floating above 
them. No matter wdiat might come to the world of 
defeat or of disaster, these souls would never know 
it, they had given themselves in the cause of hu¬ 
manity — for them there would always be the sound 
of silver trumpets, the clash of cymbals, the song of 
triumph! 

Downstairs, Dr. McKenzie was listening with a 
frowning face to what Derry had to tell him. 

“ Do you mean to say that Hilda was giving him 
— wine? ” 

“ Yes. Bronson told me. But he didn’t want 
you to depend upon his unsupported testimony. 
So we fixed up a scheme, and I stayed outside until 
he flashed a light for me; and then I went in and 
caught her.” 

“ It is incredible. Why should she do such a 
thing? She has always been a perfect nurse — a 
perfect nurse, Drake.” He rose and walked the 
floor. “ But deliberately to disobey my orders — 
what could have been her object? ” 

Derry hesitated. 

“ I haven’t told you the worst.” 

268 


HILDA SHAKES A TREE 

Doctor McKenzie stopped in front of him. “ The 
v orst? ” 

“ Dad is going to marry her.” 

“ What? ” 

Derry repeated what he had said. 

The Doctor dropped into a chair. “ Who told 
you? ” 

“ Dad.” 

“ And she admitted that it was — true? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Derry gave the facts. “ He wasn’t himself, of 
Course, but that doesn’t change things for me.” 

The Doctor in the practice of his profession had 
learned to conceal his emotions. He concealed now 
Vhat he was feeling, but a close observer might have 
seen in the fading of the color in his cheeks, the 
beating of his clenched fist on the arm of his chair, 
something of that which was stirring within him. 

“ And this has been going on ever since she went 
there. She has had it in mind to wear your 
mother’s jewels —” Derry had graphically de¬ 
scribed Bronson’s watch on the stairs —“ to get 
your father's money. I knew she was cold-blooded, 
but I had always thought it a rather admirable 
quality in a woman of her attractive type.” 

Before his eye came the vision of Hilda’s at¬ 
tractiveness by his fireside, at his table. And now 
she would sit by the General’s fire, at his table. 

“ She didn’t say a word,” Derry’s young voice 
269 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


went on, “ when lie told me that I was no longer —- 
his son. I can’t tell yon how I felt about her. Fve 
never felt that way about anyone before. I’ve al¬ 
ways liked people — but it was as if some evil thing 
had swooped down on the old house.” 

The lad saw straight! That was the thought 
which suddenly illumined Dr. McKenzie’s troubled 
mind. Hilda was not beautiful. No beauty of body 
could offset the ugliness of her distorted soul. 

“ And so I am poor,” Derry was saying, heavily, 
“ and I must wait to marry Jean.” 

The red surged up in the Doctor’s face. He 
jerked himself forward in his chair. “ You shall 
not wait. After this you are my son, if you are not 
your father’s.” 

He laid his hand on Derry’s shoulder. “ I’ve 
money enough, God knows. And I shan’t need it. 
It isn’t a fortune, but it is enough to make all of us 
comfortable for the rest of our days — and I want 
Jean to be happy. Do you think I am going to let 
Hilda Merritt stand between my child and happi¬ 
ness? ” 

“ It’s awfully good of you, sir,” Derry’s voice w 7 as 
husky w r ith feeling, u but —” 

“ There are no i buts.’ You must let me have my 
own w T ay; I shall consider it a patriotic privilege to 
support one soldier and his little wife.” 

He was riding above the situation splendidly. 
He even had visions of straightening things out. 
270 


HILDA SHAKES A TREE 


“ When I go back I shall tell Hilda what I think of 
her. I shall tell her that it is preposterous — that 
her professional reputation is at stake.” 

“ What will she care for her professional reputa¬ 
tion when she is my father’s wife? ” 

The thought of Hilda with the world, in a sense, 
at her feet was maddening. The Doctor paced the 
floor roaring like an angry lion. “ It may not do 
any good, but I’ve got to tell her what I think of 
her.” 

Derry had a whimsical sense of the meeting of 
the white cat and this leonine gentleman — would 
she purr or scratch? 

“ The sooner you and Jean are married the bet¬ 
ter. If Hilda thinks she is going to keep you and 
Jean apart she is mistaken.” 

“ Oh — did she know of the engagement? ” 

“Yes,” the Doctor confessed. “I told her the 
other day w T hen she came to fix the books.” 

“ Then that accounts for it.” 

“ For what? ” 

“Dad’s attitude. I thought it was queer he 
should fly up all in a moment. She wanted to make 
trouble, Doctor, and she has made it.” 

Long after Derry had gone to bed, the Doctor sat 
there pondering on Hilda’s treachery. He was in 
some ways a simple man — swayed by the impulse 
of the moment. The thought of deliberate plotting 
was abhorrent. In his light way he had taken her 
271 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


lightly. He had laughed at her. He had teased 
Jean, he had teased Emily, calling their intuition 
jealousy. Yet they had known better than he. 
And why should not women know women better 
than men know them? Just as men know men in a 
way that women could never know. Sex erected 
barriers — there was always the instinct to charm, 
to don one’s gayest plumage; even Hilda’s frank¬ 
ness had been used as a lure; she knew he liked it. 
Would she have been so frank if she had not felt 
its stimulus to a man of his type? And, after all, 
had she really been frank? 

Such a woman was like a poisonous weed; and 
he had thought she might bloom in the same garden 
with Jean — until Emily had told him. 

He turned to the thought of Emily with relief. 
Thank God he could leave Jean in her care. If 
Derry went, there would still be Emily with her 
sweet sanity, and her wise counsels. 

He felt very old as he went upstairs. He stood 
for a long time in front of his wife’s picture. How 
sweet she had been in her forget-me-not gown — 
how little and tender! Their love had burned in a 
white flame — there would never be anything like 
that for him again. 

He waked in the morning, however, ready for all 
that was before him. He was a man who dwelt 
little on the past. There was always the day’s 
work, and the work of the day after. 

272 ” 


HILDA SHAKES A TREE 


His appetite for the work of the coming day was, 
it must be confessed, whetted somewhat by the 
thought of what he would say to Hilda. 

They had an early breakfast, with Jean between 
her father and Derry and eating nothing for very 
happiness. 

There was the start in the opal light of the early 
morning, with a faint rose sky making a back¬ 
ground for the cross on the College, and the chimes 
saying “ Seven o’clock.” 

Jim and Mary Connolly came out in the biting 
air to see them off. Then Mary went over to the 
church to pray for Jean and Derry. But first of 
all she prayed for her sons. 

The Doctor, arriving at his office, at once called 
up Hilda. 

!' “ I must see you as soon as possible.” 

“ What has Derry Drake been telling you? ” 

“ How do you know that he has told me any¬ 
thing? ” 

“ By your voice. And you needn’t think that you 
are going to scold me.” 

“ I shall scold you for disobeying orders. I 
thought you were to be trusted, Hilda.” 

“ I am not a saint. You know that. And I am 
not sure that I want you to come. I shall send you 
away if you scold.” 

She hung up the receiver and left him fuming. 
Her high-handed indifference to his authority sent 
273 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

him storming to Derry, “ I’ve half a mind to stay 
away.” 

“ I think. I would. It won’t do any good to go —” 

But the Doctor went. He still hoped, optimis¬ 
tically, that Hilda might be induced to see the error 
of her ways. 

She received him in the blue room, where the 
General’s precious porcelain was set forth in cab¬ 
inets. It was a choice little room which had been 
used by Mrs. Drake for the reception of special 
guests. Hilda was in her uniform, but without her 
cap. It was as if in doffing her cap, she struck her 
first note of independence against the Doctor’s rule. 

He began professionally. “ Doctor Bryer tele¬ 
phoned this morning that his attendance of the case 
had been only during my absence. That he did not 
care to keep it unless I definitely intended to with¬ 
draw. I told him to go ahead. I told him also 
that you were a good nurse. I had to whitewash 
my conscience a bit to say it, Hilda —” 

Her head went up. “ I am a good nurse. But 
I am more than a nurse, I am a woman. Oh, 1 
know you are blaming me for what you think I have 
done. But if you stood under a tree and a great 
ripe peach hung just out of your reach, could you 
be blamed for shaking the tree? Well, I shook the 
tree.” 

She was very handsome as she gave her defense 
■with flashing eyes. 


274 


HILDA SHAKES A TREE 


a The General asked me to marry him, and that’s 
more than yon would ever have done. Yon liked to 
think that I was half in love with yon. Yon liked 
to pretend that yon were half in love with me. But 
would you ever have offered me ease and rest from 
hard work? Would yon ever have thought that I 
might some day be your daughter’s equal in your 
home? Oh, I have wanted good times. I used to 
sit night after night alone in the office 'while you 
and Jean went out and did the things I was dying 
to do. I wanted to go to dances and to the theater 
and to supper with a gay crowd. But you never 
seemed to think of it. I am young and I want 
pretty clothes — yet you thought I was satisfied to 
have you come home and say a few careless pleas¬ 
ant words, and to tease me a little. That was all 
you ever did for me — all you ever wanted. 

“ But the General wants more than that. He 
wants me here in the big house, to be his wife, and 
to meet his friends. He had a man come up the 
other day with a lot of rings, and he bought me 
this.” She showed the great diamonds flashing on 
her third finger. “ I have always wanted a ring like 
this, and now I can have as many as I want. Do 
you blame me for shaking the tree? ” 

He sat, listening, spellbound to her sophistry. 
But was it sophistry? Wasn’t some of it true? 
He saw her for the first time as a woman wanting 
things like other women. 

275 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


She swept out her hand to include the contents 
of the little room. “ I have always longed for a 
place like this. I don’t know a thing about china. 
But I know that all that stuff in the cabinet cost 
a fortune. And it’s a pretty room, and some day 
when I am the General’s wife, I’ll ask you here 
to take tea with me, and I’ll wear a silver gown 
like your daughter wears, and I think you’ll be sur¬ 
prised to see that I can do it well.” 

He flung up his hand. “ I can’t argue it, Hilda. 
I can’t analyze it. But it is all wrong. In all the 
years that you worked for me, while I laughed at 
you, I respected you. But I don’t respect you 
now.” 

She shrugged. “ Do you think I care? And a 
man’s respect after all is rather a cold thing, isn’t 
it? But I am sorry you feel as you do about it. 
I should have been glad to have you wish me 
happiness.” 

“ Happiness —” His anger seemed to die sud¬ 
denly. “ You won’t find happiness, Hilda, if you 
separate a son from his father.” 

“ Did he tell you that? I had nothing to do with 
it. His father was angry at his — interference.” 

He stood up. “We won’t discuss it. But you 
may tell him this. That I am glad his son is poor, 
for my daughter will marry now the man and not 
his money.” 

“ Then he will marry her ? 99 

276 


HILDA SHAKES A TREE 


“Yes. On Christmas Day.” 

She wished that she might tell him the date of 
her own wedding, but she did not know it. Vhe 
General seemed in no hurry. He had carefully ob¬ 
served the conventions; had hired a housekeeper 
and a maid, and there was, of course, the day nurse. 
Having thus surrounded his betrothed with a sort 
of feminine bodyguard, he spoke of the wedding as 
happening in the spring. And he was hard to move. 
As has been said, the General had once commanded 
a brigade. He w T as immensely entertained and 
fascinated by the lady who was to be his wife. But 
he was not to be managed by her. She found her¬ 
self, as he grew stronger, quite strangely deferring 
to his wishes. She found herself, indeed, rather un¬ 
expectedly dominated. 

She came back to the Doctor. “ Aren’t you going 
to wish me happiness? ” 

“ No. How can I, Hilda? ” 

After he had left her, she stood very still in the 
middle of the room. She could still see him as he 
had towered above her — his crinkled hair waving 
back from his handsome head. She had always 
liked the youth of him and his laughter and his 
boyish fun. 

The rich man upstairs was — old —. 


277 


CHAPTER XX 


THE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN 

And now the Tin Soldier was to go to the wars! 

Derry, swinging downtown, found himself gazing 
squarely into the eyes of the khaki-clad men whom 
he met. He was one of them at last! 

He was on his way to meet Jean. The day before 
they had gone to church together. They had heard 
burning words from a fearless pulpit. The old man 
w T ho had preached had set no limits on his patriot¬ 
ism. The cause of the Allies was the cause of hu¬ 
manity, the cause of humanity was the cause of 
Christ. He would have had the marching hymn 
of the Americans “ Onward, Christian Soldiers.’’ 
His Master was not a shrinking idealist, but a 
prophet unafraid. “ Woe unto thee, Chorazin! 
Woe unto thee, Rethsaida! ... It shall be more 
tolerable for Tyre and Sidon in the day of judgment 
than for you. And thou, Capernaum, which art ex¬ 
alted unto Heaven, shalt be brought down to 
hell . . .” 

“ I am too old to go myself,” the old man had said, 
“but I have sent my sons. In the face of the 
world’s need, no man has a right to hold another 
278 


THE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN 


back. Personal considerations which might once 
have seemed sufficient must now be set aside. 
Things are at stake which involve not only the 
honor of a nation but the honor of the individual. 
To call a man a coward in the old days was to chal¬ 
lenge his physical courage. To know him as a 
slacker in these modern times is to doubt the qual¬ 
ity of his mind and spirit. ‘ I pray thee have me 
excused ’ is the word of one lost to the high mean¬ 
ings of justice — of love and loyalty and liberty —” 

Stirring words. The lovers had thrilled to them. 
Derry’s hand had gone out to Jean and her own 
hand clasped it. Together they saw the vision of 
his going forth, a shining knight, girded for the bat¬ 
tle by a beloved woman — saw it through the glam¬ 
our of high hopes and youthful ardor! 

A troop of cavalry on the Avenue! Jackies in 
saucer caps, infantry, artillery, aviation! Blue 
and red and green cords about wide-brimmed hats. 
Husky young Westerners, slim young Southerners, 
square-chinned young Northerners — a great broth¬ 
erhood, their faces set one way — and he was to 
share their hardships, to be cold and hungry with 
the best of them, wet and dirty with the worst. It 
would be a sort of glorified penance for his delay in 
doing the thing which too long he had left undone. 

He was to have lunch with Jean in the House 
restaurant — he was a little early, and as he loi¬ 
tered through the Capitol grounds, in his ears there 
279 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


was the echo of fairy trumpets —“ trutter-a-trutt, 
trutter-a-trutt —- 

The old Capitol had always been for Derry a 
place of dreams. He loved every inch of it. The 
sunset view of the city from the west front; the 
bronze doors on the east, the labyrinthine maze of 
the corridors; the tesselated floors, the mottled mar¬ 
ble of the balustrades; the hushed approach to the 
Supreme Court; the precipitous descent into the 
galleries of House and Senate, the rap of the Speak¬ 
er’s gavel — the rattle of argument as political foes 
contended in the legislative arena; the more sub¬ 
dued squabbles on the Senate floor; the savory smell 
of food rising from the restaurants in the lower re¬ 
gions; the climb to the dome, the look of the sky 
when one came out at the top; Statuary Hall and its 
awesome echoes; the Rotunda with its fringe of 
tired tourists, its frescoed frieze — Columbus, Cor¬ 
tez, Penn, Pizarro —; the mammoth paintings — 
Pocahontas, and the Pilgrims, De Soto, and the 
Surrender of Cornwallis, the Signing of the Dec¬ 
laration, and Washington’s Resignation as Com¬ 
mander-in-Chief — Indian and Quaker, Puritan and 
Cavalier — these were some of the things which had 
ravished the eyes of the boy Derry in the days when 
his father had come to the Capitol to hobnob with 
old cronies, and his son had been allowed to roan?, 
at will. 


280 


THE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN 

But above and beyond everything else, there were 
the great mural paintings on the west wall of the 
House side, above the grand marble staircase. 

“ Westward the Course of Empire takes its 
way —! ” 

Oh, those pioneers with their faces turned to¬ 
wards the Golden West! The tired women and the 
bronzed men! Not one of them without that eager 
look of hope, of a dream realized as the land of 
Promise looms ahead! 

Derry had often talked that picture over with his 
mother. “ It was such men, Derry, who made our 
country — men unafraid — North, South, East and 
West, it was these who helped to shape the Nation’s 
destiny, as we must help to shape it for those who 
come after us.” 

It was in front of this picture that he was to meet 
Jean. He had wanted to share with her the in¬ 
spiration of it. 

She was late, and he waited, leaning on the mar¬ 
ble rail which overlooked the stairway. People 
were going up and down passing the picture, but 
not seeing it, their pulses calm, their blood cold. 
The doors of the elevators opened and shut, women 
came and went in velvet and fur, laughing. Men 
followed them, laughing, and the picture was not 
for them. 

Derry wondered if it were symbolic, this indif- 
281 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


ference of the crowd. Was the world’s pageant of 
horrors and of heroism thus unseen by the eyes of 
the unthinking? 

And now Jean ascended, the top of her hat first — 
a blur of gray, then the red of the rose that he had 
sent her, a wave of her gray muff as she saw him. 
He went down to meet her, and stood with her on 
the landing. Beneath the painting, on one side, 
ran the inscription, “ No pent up Utica confines our 
powers, but the boundless Continent is ours,” on 
the other side, “ The Spirit moves in its allotted 
space; the mind is narrow in a narrow sphere.” 

Thousands of men and women came and went 
and never read those words. But boys read them, 
sitting on the stairs or leaning over the rail — and 
their minds were carried on and on. Old men, com¬ 
ing back after years to read them again, could tes¬ 
tify what the words had meant to them in the field 
of high endeavor. 

Jean had seen the painting many times, but now, 
standing on the upper gallery floor with Derry, it 
took on new meanings. She saw a girl with hope in 
her eyes, a young mother with a babe at her breast; 
homely middle-aged women redeemed from the com¬ 
monplace by that long gaze ahead of them; old 
women straining towards that sunset glow. She 
saw, indeed, the Vision of Brave Women. “ If it 
could only be like that for me, Derry. Do you see 
282 


THE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN 


— they go with their husbands, those women, and I 
must stay behind.” 

“ You will go with me, beloved, in spirit —” 

They fell into silence before the limitless vista. 

And now more people were coming up the stairs, 
a drawling, familiar voice — Alma Drew on the 
landing below. With her a tall young man. She 
was turning on him all her batteries of charm. 

Alma passed the picture and did not look at it, 
she passed the lovers and did not see them. And 
she was saying as she passed, “ I don’t know why 
any man should be expected to fight. I shouldn’t 
if I were a man.” 

Jean drew a long breath. “ There, but for the 
grace of God, goes Jean McKenzie.” 

Derry laughed. u You were never like that. 
Not for the least minute. You were afraid for the 
man you loved. It isn’t fear with Alma.” 

But the thought of Alma did not trouble them 
long. There was too much else in their world to¬ 
day. As they walked through the historic halls, 
they had with them all the romance of the past — 
and so Robert Fulton with his boats, Pere Mar¬ 
quette with his cross and beads, Frances Willard 
in her strange old-fashioned dress spoke to them of 
the dreams which certain inspired men and women 
have translated into action. 

They talked of these things while they ate their 
283 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


lunch. The black waiter, who knew Derry, hov¬ 
ered about them. His freedom, too, had been the 
culmination of a dream. 

“ Men laugh at the dreamers,” Derry said, “ then 
honor them after they are dead.” 

“ That's the cruelty, the sadness of it, isn't it? ” 

“ Not to the dreamer. Do you think that Pere 
Marquette cared for what smaller minds might 
think, or Frances Willard? They had their vision 
backed by a great faith in the rightness of things, 
and so Marquette followed the river and planted the 
cross, and Frances Willard blazed the way for the 
thing which has come to pass.” 

After lunch they motored to Drusilla’s. They 
used one of Dr. McKenzie’s cars. Derry had 
ceased to draw upon his father’s establishment for 
anything. He lived at the club, and met his ex¬ 
penses with the small balance which remained to 
his credit in the bank. 

a You can give Jean whatever you think best,” 
he told the Doctor, “ but I shall try to live on what 
I have until I go, and then on my pay.” 

“ Your pay, my dear boy, will just about equal 
what you now spend in tips.” 

“I think I shall like it. It’s an adventure for 
rich men when they have to be poor. That’s why 
a lot of fellows have gone into it. They are tired 
of being the last word in civilization. They want 
to get down to primitive things.” 

284 


THE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN 


“ Mrs. Witherspoon can’t imagine Derry Drake 
without two baths a day.” 

“ Can’t she? Well, Mrs. Witherspoon may find 
that Derry Drake is about like the rest of the fel¬ 
lows. No better and no worse. There is no dis¬ 
grace in liking to be clean. The disgrace comes 
when one kicks against a thing that can’t be 
helped.” 

In the Doctor’s car, therefore, they arrived at 
Drusilla’s. 

“ We have come to tell you that we are going to 
be married.” 

“ You Babes in the Wood! ” 

“ Will you come to the wedding? 

“ Of course I’ll come. Marion, do you hear? 
They are going to be married.” 

“ And after that, Drusilla,”— he smiled as he 
phrased it —“ your Tin Soldier will go to the 
wars.” 

Jean glanced from one to the other. “Is that 
what she called you — a Tin Soldier? ” 

“ It is what I called myself.” 

Marion having come forward to say the proper 
thing, added, “ Drusilla’s going, too.” 

“ Drusilla ? ” 

“ Yes, with my college unit — to run errands in 
a flivver.” 

The next day, encountering Derry on the street, 
Drusilla opened her knitting bag and brought out 
285 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


a tiny parcel. “ It’s my wedding gift to you. I 
found it in Emily’s toy shop.” 

It was a gay little French tin soldier. “ For a 
mascot,” she told him, seriously. “ Derry, dear, I 
shall not try to tell you how I feel about your mar¬ 
riage to Jean. About your going. If I could sing 
it, you’d know. But I haven’t any words. It — it 
seems so — perfect that the Tin Soldier should go 
— to the wars — and that the girl he leaves behind 
him should be a little white maid like — Jean.” 

Thus Drusilla, with a shake in her voice, re¬ 
nouncing a — dream. 

Derry, who was on his way to Margaret’s showed 
the tin soldier to Teddy and his little sister. u He 
is going to the wars.” 

“ With you? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ When are you going? ” 

“ As soon as I can —” 

“ I should think you wouldn’t like to leave us.” 

“ Well, I don’t. But I am coming back.” 

“ Daddy didn’t come back.” 

“ But some men do.” 

“ Perhaps God doesn’t love you as much as He 
did Daddy, and He won’t want to keep you.” 

u Perhaps not —” 

The things which the child had spoken stayed 
with Derry all that day. His feeling about death 
had always been that of a man who has long years 
286 


TEE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN 


before Mm. He had rather jauntily conceded that 
some men die young, but that the chances in his ease 
were for a green old age. He might indeed have 
fifty years before him, and in fifty years one could 

— get ready — age had to do with serious things, 
people were peaceful and prepared. 

But to get ready now. To face the thing 
squarely, saying, “ I may not come hack — there 
are, indeed, a thousand chances that I shall not 
come” Lacking those fifty years in which to grow 
towards the thought of dissolution, what ought one 
to do ? Should a man make himself fit in some spe¬ 
cial fashion? 

There was, too, the thought of those whom he 
might leave behind. Of Jean — his wife — whom 
he would leave. She would break her heart — at 
first. And then —? Would she remember? 
Would she forget? Would he and those millions 
of others who had gone down in battle become dim 
memories — pale shadows against the vivid back¬ 
ground of the hurrying world? 

He felt that he could not, must not speak of 
these things to Jean. So he talked of them to 
Emily. 

“ If anything should happen to me/’ he said, “ I 
couldn’t, of course, expect that Jean would go on — 
caring —. And if there should ever be anyone else 

— I — I should want her to be happy.” 

u Don’t try to be magnanimous,” Miss Emily ad 
287 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


vised. “ Yon are human, and it isn’t in the heart 
of man to want the woman he loves ever to turn to 
another. Let the years take care of that. But you 
can be very sure of one thing — that no one will 
ever take your place with Jean.” 

“ But she may marry.” 

“Why should you torture yourself with that? 
You have given her something that no one else can 
ever give — the wonder and rapture of first love. 
And the heroes of a war like this will be in a very 
special manner set apart! ‘A glorious company, 
the flower of men, to serve as models for the mighty 
world!’” 

She laid her hand on his shoulder. “ You must 
think now only of love and life and of coming back 
to Jean.” 

He reached up his hand and caught hers in a 
warm clasp. “ Do you know you are the nearest 
thing to a mother that I’ve known since I lost 
mine? ” 

He spoke, too, rather awkwardly, of the feeling 
about — getting ready. 

“ I have always thought that if I tried to live 
straight — I’ve thought, too, that it wouldn’t come 
until I was old — that I should have plenty of time 
— and that by then, I should be more — spiritual.” 

“ You will never be more spiritual than you are 
at this moment. Youth is nearer Heaven than age. 
I have always thought that. As we grow old — we 
288 


TEE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN 


are stricken by — fear — of poverty, of disease — 
of death. It is youth which has faith and hope.” 

Before he left her, he gave her a sacred charge. 
“ If anything happens, I know what you'll be to — 
Jean — and I can’t tell you what a help you’ve been 
this morning.” 

She was thrilled by that. And after he left her 
she thought much about him. Of what it would 
have meant to her to have a son like that. 

Women had said to her, “You should be glad 
that you have no boy to send —.” But she was not 
glad. Were they mad, these mothers, to want to 
hold their boys back? Had the days of peace held 
no dangers that they should be so afraid for them 
now? 

For peace had dangers — men and women had 
been worshipping false gods. They had set up a 
Golden Calf and had bowed before it — and their 
children, lured by luxury, emasculated by ease of 
living, had wanted more ease, more luxury, more 
time in which to — play! 

And now life had become suddenly a vivid Cru¬ 
sade, with everybody marching in one direction, and 
the young men were manly in the old ways of 
strength and heroism, and the young women were 
womanly in the old way of sending their lovers 
forth, and in a new way, when, like Drusilla, they 
went forth themselves to the front line of battle. 

To have children in these days, meant to have 
289 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


something to give. One need not stand before suf¬ 
fering humanity empty-handed! 

War was a monstrous thing, a murderous thing 
— but surely this war was a righteous one — a fire 
which would cleanse the world. Men and women, 
because of it, were finding in themselves something 
which could suffer for others, something in them¬ 
selves which could sacrifice, something which went 
beyond body and mind, something which reached up 
and touched their souls. 

So, in the midst of darkness, Miss Emily had a 
vision of Light. After the war was over, things 
could never be as they had been before. The spirit 
which had sent men forth in this Crusade, which 
had sent women, would survive, please God, and 
show itself in a greater sense of fellowship — of 
brotherhood. Might not men, even in peace, go on 
praying as they were praying it now in war, the 
prayer of Cromwell’s men, “ Oh, Lord, it's a hard 
battle, but it’s for the rights of the common peo¬ 
ple—” Might not the rich young men who were 
learning to be the brothers of the poor, and the 
poor young men who were learning in a large sense 
of the brotherhood of the rich — might these not 
still clasp hands in a sacred cause? 

Yes, she was sorry that she had no son. Slim 
and gray-haired, a little worn by life’s struggle, her 
blood quickened at the thought of a son like Derry. 
The warmth of his handclasp, the glimpse of that 
290 


TEE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN 

inner self which he had given her, these were things 
to hold close to her heart. She had known on that 
first night that he was — different. She had not 
dreamed that she should hold him — close. 

Rather pensively she arranged her window. It 
was snowing hard, and in spite of the fact that 
Christmas was only three days away, customers 
were scarce. 

The window display was made effective by the 
use of Jean’s purple camels — a sandy desert, a 
star overhead, blazing with all the realism of a tiny 
electric bulb behind it, the Wise Men, the Inn where 
the Babe lay, and in a far corner a group of shep¬ 
herds watching a woolly flock — 

Her cyclamen was dead. A window had been left 
open, and when she arrived one morning she had 
found it frozen. 

She had thanked Ulrich Stolle for it, in a pleas¬ 
antly worded note. She had not dared express her 
full appreciation, lest she seem fulsome. Few men 
in her experience had sent her flowers. Never in all 
the years of her good friendship with Bruce Mc¬ 
Kenzie had he bestowed upon her a single bloom. 

Several days had passed, and there had been no 
answer to the note. She had not really expected an 
answer, but she had thought he might come in. 

He came in now, with a great parcel in his arms. 
He was a picturesque figure in an enveloping cape 
and a soft hat pulled down over his gray hair, and 
291 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


with white flakes powdered over his shoulders. 

“ Good morning, Miss Bridges,” he said; “ did 
you think I was never coming? ” 

His manner of assuming that she had expected 
him quite took Emily’s breath away. “ I am glad 
you came,” she said, simply. “ It is rather dreary, 
with the snow, and this morning I found my cycla¬ 
men frozen on the shelf.” 

He glanced up at it. “ We have other flowers,” 
he said, and, with a sure sense of the dramatic 
effect, untied the string of his parcel. 

Then there was revealed to Miss Emily’s aston¬ 
ished eyes not the flowers that she had expected, 
but four small plush elephants, duplicates in every¬ 
thing but size of the one she had loaned to Ulrich, 
and each elephant carried on his back a fragrant 
load of violets cunningly kept fresh by a glass tube 
hidden in his trappings. 

“ There,” said Ulrich Stolle, “ my father sent 
them. It is his taste, not mine — but I knew that 
you would understand.” 

“ But,” Miss Emily gasped, “ did he make them? ” 

“ Most certainly. With his clever old fingers — 
and he will make as many more as you wish.” 

Thus came white elephants back to Miss Emily’s 
shelves. “ It seems almost too good to be true,” 
she said, sniffing the violets and smiling at 
him. 

u Nothing is too good to be true,” he told her, 
292 


THE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN 


u and now I have something to ask. That you will 
come and see my father.’ 7 

“ With pleasure. 77 

He glanced around the empty shop. “ Why not 
now? There are no customers — and the gray 
light makes things dreary —. And it is spring in 
my hothouses — there are a thousand cyclamens 
for the one you have lost, a thousand violets for 
every one on the backs of these little elephants—* 
narcissus and daffodils —. Why not? 77 

Why not, indeed? Why not, when Adventure 
beckoned, go to meet it? She had tied herself for 
so many years to the commonplace and the prac- 
tical. 

And so Miss Emily closed her shop, and went in 
Ulrich’s car, leaving a card tucked in the shop door,, 
“ Will reopen at three. 77 

It was at one o’clock that Dr. McKenzie came 
and found that door shut against him. He shook 
the knob with some impatience, and stamped his 
foot impotently when no one answered. His or¬ 
ders had come and he must leave for France to¬ 
morrow. He had not told Jean, he had come to 
Emily to ask her to break the news —. 

He stood there in the snow feeling quite unex¬ 
pectedly forlorn. Heretofore he had always been 
able to put his finger on Emily when he had wanted 
her. He had needed only to beckon and she had 
followed. 


293 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


And how could lie know that she was at that very 
moment following other beckonings? That she had 
responded to a call that was not the call of selfish 
need, but of a subtle understanding of her rare 
charm. Bruce McKenzie had, perhaps, subcon¬ 
sciously felt that Emily would be fortunate to have 
a place by his fireside, to bask in his presence — 
Ulrich Stolle leading Emily through the moist fra¬ 
grance of his hot-houses counted himself blessed by 
the gods to have her there. “ You see,” he said, 
46 that here it is spring.” 

It was indeed spring, with birds singing, not in 
cages, but free to fly as they pleased; with the sound 
of water, as a little artificial stream wound its way 
over moss-covered rocks set where it might splash 
and fall over them — with ferns bending down to 
it and tiny flashing fish following it. 

“ My father did that,” Ulrich explained, “ when 
he was younger and stronger. But now he sits in 
his chair and works at his toys.” 

The workshop of Franz Stolle was entered 
through the door of the last hothouse; he had thus 
always a vista of splashing color — red and purples 
and yellows — great stretches, and always with the 
green to rest his eyes; with the door opened be¬ 
tween there came to him the fragrance, and the 
singing of birds, and the sound of the little stream. 

He sat in a big chair, bent a little, plump and 
^*uddy-faced, with a fringe of white hair. He wore 
294 


TEE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN 


horn spectacles — and a velvet coat. He rose when 
Emily entered, elegant of manner, in spite of his 
rotundity. 

“ So it is the lady of the elephants, Ulrich? 
When you telephoned I thought it was too good to 
be true.” 

“ Your son says that nothing is too good to be 
true,” Emily told him, sitting down in the chair that 
Ulrich placed for her, “ but I have a feeling that 
this will all vanish in a moment like Aladdin’s 
palace —-” She waved her hands towards the 
shelves that went around the room. “ I never ex¬ 
pected to see such toys again.” 

For there they were — the toys of Germany. 
The quaint Noah’s arks, the woolly dogs and the¬ 
mewing cats — the moon-faced dolls. 

“ I don’t see how you have made them all.” 

“ Many of them were made years ago, Fraulein, 
and I have kept them for remembrance, but many 
of them are new. When my son told me that it was 
hard for you to get toys, I gathered around me a 
few old friends who learned their trade in Nurem¬ 
berg. We have done much in a few days. We will 
do more. We are all patriotic. We will show the 
Prussians that the children of America do not lack 
for toys. What does the Prussian know of play? 
He knows only killing and killing and killing.” 

The old man beat his fist upon the table, “Kill¬ 
ing! ” 


295 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“You see,” Ulrich said to Emily, “there are 
many of us who feel that way. Yet unthinking 
people cannot see that we are loyal, that our hearts 
beat with the hearts of those who have English 
blood and French blood and Italian blood and 
Dutch blood in their veins, and who have but one 
country — America.” 

The old man had recovered himself. “ We are 
not here to talk of killing, but of what I and my 
friends shall make for you. And you are to have 
lunch with us? I have planned it, and I w T on’t take 
4 no/ Fraulein. You and I have so much to say to 
each other.” 

Emily wondered if it were really her middle-aged 
and prosaic self who sat later at the table, being 
waited on by a very competent butler, and deferred 
to by the two men as if she were a queen. 

It was she and the old man who did most of the 
talking, but always she was conscious of Ulrich’s 
attentive eyes, of the weight of the quiet words 
which he interjected now and then in the midst of 
his father’s volubility. 

“ Germany, my mother, is dead,” wailed the old 
.man. “ I have w r ept over her grave; those who 
wage this war against humanity are bastards, the 
real sons and daughters of that sweet old Germany 
are here in America — they have come to their fos¬ 
ter-mother, and they love her. 

“ If I had been younger,” he went on, “ I should 
296 


THE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN 


liave fought. My son would have fought. But as 
it is we can make toys — and we shall say to the 
Prussians across the sea, i You have killed our 
mother — your people are no longer our people, nor 
your God our God.’ ” 

Ulrich took Emily home. She carried with her a 
Noah’s Ark, and a precious pot of cyclamen. She 
had chosen the cyclamen out of all the rest. “ It is 
such a cheerful thing blooming in my shop.” 

“ There are other cheerful things in your shop ,” 1 
he told her. 

As she met his smiling eyes, she smiled back, “ Do 
you mean that I am a cheerful thing? ” 

“ A rose, mein Fraulein, when your cheeks are 
red, like this.” 

Emily, alone at last in the Toy Shop, took off her 
hat in front of the mirror and saw her red cheeks. 
She set the cyclamen safely in a warm corner. 
The four elephants with their fragrant freight of 
violets made an exotic and incongruous addition to 
the Christmas scene in the window. 

Bruce McKenzie, coming in, asked, “ ^Where did 
you get them ? ” 

“The elephants? Ulrich Stolle brought them. 
Do you know him? ” 

“ Yes. But I didn’t know that you did.” 

“His father makes toys. I lent him my white 
elephant, and he made these —” 

She spoke without self-consciousness, and Me« 
297 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


f£enzie’s mind was on his own matters, so they 
swept away from the subject of Ulrich Stolle. 
“ Emily,” Bruce said, “ I have my orders. Tomor¬ 
row at twelve I must leave for France.” 

She gazed at him stupidly. “ Tomorrow — ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But — Jean —? ” 

“ I haven’t told her. I don’t know how to tell 
her.” 

“ You won’t be here for the wedding —? ” 

“ No.” 

“ It will break her heart.” 

“ You needn’t tell me that. Don’t I know it? ” 
His voice was sharp with the tension of suppressed 
emotion. 

He dropped into a chair, then jumped up and 
placed one for her. “ Sit down, sit down,” he said, 
46 and don’t make me forget my manners. Some¬ 
how this thing gets me as nothing has ever gotten 
me before. It isn’t that I mind going —I mind 
hurting — Jean —” 

“ You have always hated to hurt people,” Emily 
said. “ In some ways it’s a sign of weakness.” 

“ Don’t scold,” he begged. “ I know I’m not 
much of a fellow, but you’ll be sorry for me a little, 
won’t you, Emily? ” 

She did not melt as he had expected to the ap¬ 
peal in his voice. “ The thing we have to think of 
:now,” she said, “is not being sorry for you, but 
298 


TEE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN 

iiow we can get Jean married before twelve o’clock 
tomorrow —” 

“ Oh 7 of course we can’t.” 

“ Of course we can — if we make up our minds 
to it, and it's the only thing to do.” 

“ But nothing is ready.” 

“ Things can be made ready. They can stand up 
in the rose drawing-room at ten, and you can give 
her away.” 

He looked at her admiringly. “ I didn’t know 
that you had so much initiative.” 

She might have told him that it was a quality on 
which she rather prided herself, but that hitherto it 
had not seemed to attract him. “ There are several 
things as yet undiscovered by you,” she remarked 
casually, as she locked up her toys. 

Watching her, he wondered idly if there were 
really worlds to discover in Emily. It might be 
interesting to — find out —. 

“ Shall you miss me? ” he asked. 

“ Of course. And now if you’ll see that the back 
shutters are barred, we’ll be ready to go.” 

Thus she checked his small attempt at sentiment,, 
and on the way home they talked about Jean. “ If 
Derry goes, you and she must live together in my 
house. Let that be understood. I’d rather have 
her with you than with anyone else in the whole 
wide world.” 

Thus again the sacred charge, but this time not 
299 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

as a favor, but in lordly fashion, as one who claims 
a right. 

Jean and Derry were having tea at the club, but 
could not be reached by phone. “ They had prob¬ 
ably motored out into the country,” Emily decidedo 
“ Well have to do things before they come.* 

The things that she did were stupendous. 

She had a florist up in two hours — and the rose- 
colored drawing room was rosier than ever, and as 
fragrant as a garden. 

She telephoned the clergyman —- “ At ten o’clock 
tomorrow.” 

She telephoned the caterer— “A wedding 
breakfast —” 

She telephoned the dressmaker— “ Miss Mc¬ 

Kenzie’s gown —” 

She telephoned Margaret and Marion Gray —. 

“ Is there anyone else? ” she asked the Doctor. 
“ I suppose we really ought to tell the General.” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ But Bronson —? Derry will want him.” 

“ If he can keep a secret — yes.” 

Jean and Derry, arriving after dark, were swept 
into a scene of excitement. 

Florists on the stairs! 

A frenzied dressmaker waiting with Jean’s wed¬ 
ding gown! 

Maids with mops and men with vacuums! 

300 


THE VISION OF THE BRAVE WOMEN 


Julia and the cook helping at loose ends and din¬ 
ner late! 

What did it all mean? 

“ It means/’ said the Doctor, “ that you are going 
to be married, my dear, at ten o’clock in the morn¬ 
ing.” 

“ But why, Daddy —” fear showed in her eyes — 

“ Ask Emily.” 

“ Is he — going away,— Emily? ” 

“ Yes, dear.” 

“But he mustn’t. Derry, do you hear? He is 
going to France — and he mustn’t —” 

Derry took her trembling hands in his firm clasp. 
“ He must go, you know that, dearest.” His touch 
steadied her. 

He leaned down to her and sang: — 

“Jeanne D’Arc, Jeanne D’Arc — 

Jeanne D’Arc, la victoire est pour vous.” 

Her head went up. The color came back to her 
cheeks. 

“ Of course,” she said, and put away childish 
things that she might measure up to the stature of 
her lover’s faith in her. 

And it was Jean, the Woman, who talked long 
that night with her father before he went to France. 


301 


CHAPTER XXI 


DERRY’S WIFE 

It snowed hard the next morning. The General, 
waking, found the day nurse in charge. Bronson 
came in to get him ready for his breakfast. There 
was about the old man an air of suppressed excite¬ 
ment. He hurried a little in his preparations for 
the General’s bath. But everything was done with 
exactness, and it was not until the General was 
shaved and sitting up in his gorgeous mandarin 
robe that Bronson said, “ I’d like to go out for an 
hour or two this morning, if you can spare me, 
sir —” 

“ In this snow? I thought you hated snow. 
You’ve always been a perfect pussy cat about the 
cold, Bronson.” 

“ Yes, sir, but this is very important, sir.” 

The General ran his eye over the spruce figure. 
“ And you are all dressed up. I hope you are not 
going to be married, Bronson.” 

It was an old joke between them. Bronson was 
a pre-destined bachelor, and the General knew it. 
But he liked to tease him. 

“ No, sir. I’ll be back in time to look after your 
lunch, sir.” 


302 


DERRY’S WIFE 


The General had been growing stronger, so that 
he spent several hours each day in his chair. When 
Bronson had gone, he rose and moved restlessly 
about the room. The day nurse cautioned him. 
“ The Doctor doesn’t want you to exert yourself, 
General Drake.” 

He was always courteous, but none the less he 
meant to have his own way. “ Don’t worry, Miss 
Martin. I’ll take the responsibility.” 

He shuffled out into the hall. When she would 
have followed, he waved her back. “ I am per¬ 
fectly able to go alone,” he told her. 

She stood on the threshold watching him. She 
was very young and she was a little afraid of 
him. Her eyes, as she looked upon him, saw an 
obstinate old man in a gay dressing gown. And 
the man in the gay dressing gown felt old un¬ 
til he faced suddenly his wife’s picture on the 
stairs. 

It had been weeks since he had seen it, and in 
those weeks much had happened. Her smiling 
presence came to him freshly, as the spring might 
come to one housed through a long winter, or the 
dawn after a dark night. 

“ Edith —- ! ” 

He leaned upon the balustrade. The nurse, com¬ 
ing out, warned him. “ Indeed, you’d better stay 
m your room.” 

“ I’m all right. Please don’t worry. You ’tend 
303 


TEE TIE SOLDIER 


to your knitting, and I’ll take care of myself." 

She insisted, however, on bringing out a chair 
and a rug. “ Perhaps it will be a change for you 
to sit in the hall,” she conceded, and tucked him in, 
and he found himself trembling a little from weak¬ 
ness, and glad of the support which the chair gave 
him. 

It seemed very pleasant to sit there with Edith 
smiling at him. For the first time in many weeks 
his mind was at rest. Ever since Hilda had come 
he had felt the pressure of an exciting presence. 
He felt this morning free from it, and glad to be 
free. 

What a wife Edith had been! Holding him al¬ 
ways to his highest and best, yet loving him even 
when he stumbled and fell. Bending above him in 
her beautiful charity and understanding, raising 
him up, fostering his self-respect in those moments 
of depression when he had despised himself. 

What other woman would have done it? What 
other woman would have kept her love for him 
through it all? For she had loved him. It had 
never been his money with her. She would have 
clung to him in sickness and in poverty. 

But Hilda loved his money. He knew it now as 
absolutely as if she had said it. For the first time 
in weeks he saw clearly. Last night his eyes had 
been opened. 

He had been roused towards morning by those 
304 


DERRY’S WIFE 


soft sounds in the second room, which he had heard 
more than once in the passing weeks. In his fever¬ 
ish moments, it had not seemed unlikely that his 
wife might be there, coming back to haunt, with her 
gentle presence, the familiar rooms. There was, 
indeed, her light step, the rustle of her silken gar^ 
ments —. 

Half-asleep he had listened, then had opened his 
eyes to find the night-lamp burning, Hilda’s book 
under it and Hilda gone! 

The minutes passed as still his ears were strained. 
There was not a sound in the house but that silken 
rustle. He wondered if he sought Edith if she 
would speak to him. He rose and reached for his 
dressing gown. 

Hilda had grown careless; there was no screen m 
front of the second door, and the crack was wide. 
The General standing in the dark saw her be¬ 
fore his wife’s mirror, wearing his wife’s jewels, 
wrapped in the cloak which his wife had worn ~ 
triumphant — beautiful! 

It was that air of triumph which repelled him. 
It was a discordant note in the Cophetua theme. 
He had liked her in her nurse’s white. In the trap¬ 
pings which did not belong to her she showed her¬ 
self a trifle vulgar — less than a lady. 

He had crept back to bed, and wide-awake, he had 
worked it all out in his mind. It was his money 
which Hilda wanted, the things that he could give 
305 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


her; he meant to her pink parasols and satin slip- 
pers, and diamonds and pearls and ermines and 
sables, and a check-book, with unlimited credit 
everywhere. 

And to get the things that she wanted, she had 
given him that which had stolen away his brains, 
which might indeed have done more than that — 
which might have killed his soul. 

He had heard her come in, but he had simulated 
sleep. She had seated herself by the little table, 
and had gone on with her book. Between his half- 
closed eyes he had studied her — seeing her with 
new eyes — the hard line of her lips, the long white 
hands, the heaviness of her chin. 

Then he had slept, and had waked to find the day 
nurse on duty. He felt that he should be glad 
never to see Hilda again. He dreaded the night 
when he must once more speak to her. 

He was very tired sitting there in his chair. The 
rug had slipped from his knees. He tried to reach 
for it and failed. But he did not want to call the 
day nurse. He wanted some one with him who — 
cared. He raised his poor old eyes to the lady in 
the picture. He was cold and tired. 

He wished that Bronson w^ould come back — 
good old Bronson, to pull up the rug. He wished 
that Derry might come. 

A door below opened and shut. Some one was 
306 


DERRY’S WIFE 


ascending tlie stairs. Some one who walked with 
a light step — some one slim and youthful, in a 
white gown — ! 

“Edith— t” 

But Edith’s hair had not been crinkled and cop¬ 
per-colored, and Edith would have come straight up 
to him; she would not have hesitated on the top 
step as if afraid to advance. 

“ Who are you? ” 

“ Jean —■” 

"Jean?” 

" Derry’s wife.” 

“ Come here.” He tried to reach out his hand to 
her, but could not. His tongue felt thick —. 

She knelt beside his chair. Her head was bare. 
She wore no wrap. " We were married this morn¬ 
ing. And my own father has gone — to France — 
and I wanted a father —” 

“ Did Derry tell you to come? ” 

" Bronson begged me. He was at the wed¬ 
ding —” 

"Old Bronson?” He tried to smile, but the 
smile was twisted. 

She was looking up at him fearfully, but her 
voice did not falter. “ I came to tell you that 
Derry loves you. He doesn’t want ytur money, 
oh, you know that he doesn’t want it. But he is 
going away to the — war, and he may be killed, so 
many men are — killed. And he — loves you —” 
307 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


iC Where is he? ” 

“ I wouldn’t let him come. You see, you said 
things which were hard for him to forgive. I was 
afraid you might say such things again.” 

He knew that he would never say them. u Tell 
him that — I love him.” He tried to sit up. 
“ Tell him that he is — my son.” 

He fell back. He heard her quick cry, “ Bron¬ 
son —” 

Bronson came running up the stairs, and the 
nurse who had watched the scene dazedly from the 
threshold of the General’s room ran, too. 

Weighted down by a sense of increasing numb¬ 
ness he lifted his agonized eyes to Jean. “ Stay 
with me — stay —” 

Hilda, waked by the day nurse, raged. “ You 
should have called me at once when he left his 
room. Why didn’t you call me? ” 

“ Because I felt myself competent to manage the 
case.” 

“ You see how you have managed it — I will be 
down in a minute. Get everybody out —” 

Her composed manner when she came down 
showed nothing of that which was seething within 
her. 

She found Jean in bridal-white sitting by the 
bed and holding the General’s hand. The doctor 
had been sent for, Berry had been sent for — 
things were being swept out of her hands. She 
308 


DERRY’S WIFE 

blamed it, still hiding her anger under a quiet man* 
ner, on Jean. 

“ He has had a stroke. It was probably the ex¬ 
citement of your coming.” 

The day nurse intervened. “ It was before she 
came, Miss Merritt, that I saw him reach for the 
rug. I was puzzled and started to investigate, and 
then I saw her on the stairs—•” She smiled at 
Jean. Never in her limited young life had the day 
nurse seen such a lovely bride, and she did not in 
the least like Miss Merritt. 

Derry coming a little later held Jean’s hand in 
his while he faced Hilda. “ What does the doctor 
say?” 

The truth came reluctantly. “He may be un¬ 
conscious for days. He may never wake up —” 

“ I do not think we shall need your services —. 
I will send you a check for any amount you may 
name.” 

“ But—” 

“ Whatever claim you may have upon him will be 
settled when he is in a condition to settle anything; 
until then, my wife and I shall stay —” 

Hilda went upstairs and packed her bag. So 
her house of dreams tumbled about her. So she 
left behind her the tiara and the pearl collar with 
the diamond slides, and the velvet cloak with the 
ermine collar. Poor Hilda, with her head held 
high, going out of the shadowed house. 

309 


TEE TIE SOLDIER 


And taking Hilda’s place, oh, more than taking 
her place, was Jean — and this was her wedding 
day. The little rose-colored drawing room had 
needed all of its rose to counteract the gray of the 
world outside, with the snow and Daddy’s car 
standing ready to take him to the station. 

But always there had been the thought of Derry 
to uphold her, and the wonder of their love. Noth¬ 
ing could rob her of that. 

He had held her in his arms the night before, 
and had said, “ Tomorrow we shall be in Wood- 
stock, and shall listen to the chimes —” 

And now it was tomorrow, and they were here in 
this great grim house with Death at the door. 

Quite miraculously Emily arrived, and she and 
Bronson made a boudoir of Derry’s sitting-room. 
They filled it with flowers, as was fitting for a 
bridal-bower. Jean’s little trunk had been sent on 
to Woodstock, but there was her bag, and a supply 
of things which Emily brought from home. 

A new night nurse came, and Miss Martin was 
retained for the day. The snow still fell, and the 
old man in the lacquered bed was still unconscious, 
his stertorous breathing sounding through the 
house. 

And it was her wedding day! 

They dined in the great room where Derry’s an¬ 
cestors gazed down on them. Emily was there, and 
it was a bridal feast, with things ordered hurriedly. 
31 £ 


DERRY’S WIFE 


Bronson, too, had seen to that. But they ate little. 
Emily talked and Derry ably supplemented her 
efforts. 

But Jean was silent. It was all so different from 
what one might expect— ! She still wore her 
white dress. It was a rather superlative frock 
with much cobwebby lace that had been her 
mother's, and in the place of her own small string 
of pearls was the longer string which had been her 
father’s last gift to her. She had worn no veil, 
her crinkled copper hair in all its beauty had been 
uncovered. 

“ I can’t believe that the lovely, lovely lady at 
the other end of the table is my wife,” Derry told 
Miss Emily. 

Jean smiled at him. She felt as if she were 
smiling from a great distance — and she had to 
look at him over a perfect thicket of orchids. 
“ Shall I always have to sit so far away from you, 
Derry?” she asked in a very small voice. 

“ My dearest, no —” and he came and stood be¬ 
hind her, and reached for her little coffee cup and 
drank where her lips had touched, shamelessly, be¬ 
fore the eyes of the sympathetic and romantic Miss 
Emily. 

And now Emily had gone! And at last Jean and 
Derry were alone in the bridal bower, and Jean was 
telling Derry again what his father had said. “ He 
begged me to stay —” 


an 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


Their eyes met. “ Dearest, dearest/’ Derry said, 
“ what is life doing to me? ” 

“ It has given you me, Derry ”— such a little, 
little whisper. 

“ My beloved — yes.” 

The next morning they talked it over. 

“What am I to do? He needs me more than 
ever —” 

“ There must be some way out, Derry.” 

But what way? The Tin Soldier had jumped 
from the shelf, but he had fallen through a crack! 
And the war was going on without him — ! 


m2 


CHAPTER XXII 


JEAN PLAYS PROXY 

Christmas morning found the General conscious. 
He was restless until Jean was brought to him. 
He had a feeling that she had saved him from 
Hilda. He wanted her where he could see her. 
“ Don’t leave me,” he begged. 

She slipped away to eat her Christmas dinner 
with Derry and Emily and Margaret. It was an 
early dinner on account of the children. They ate 
in the big dining room, and after dinner there was 
a tree, with Ulrich Stolle playing Father Christ¬ 
mas. It had come about quite naturally that he 
should be asked. It had been unthinkable that 
Derry could enter into the spirit of it, so Emily 
had ventured to suggest Ulrich. “ He will make an 
ideal Santa Claus.” 

But it developed that he was not to be Santa 
Claus at all. He w T as to be Father Christmas, 
with a wreath of mistletoe instead of a red cap. 

Teddy was intensely curious about the change. 
“ But why isn’t he Santa Claus? ” he asked. 

“ Well, Santa Claus was — made in Germany.” 

“ Oh! ” 


313 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ But now lie lias joined the Allies and changed 
Ms name.” 

“ Oh! ” 

“And he wears mistletoe, because mistletoe is 
the Christmas bush, and red caps don’t really mean 
anything, do they? ” 

“ No, but Mother —” 

“ Yes?” 

“ If Santa Claus has joined the Allies what will 
the little German children do? ” 

What indeed? 

Jean had trimmed a little tree for the General, 
and the children carried it up to him carefully and 
sang a carol — haying first arranged on his table, 
under the lamp, the purple camels, to create an 
atmosphere. 

“ ‘ We three kings of Orient are, 

Bearing gifts we traverse far 

Field and fountain, moor and mountain, 

Following yonder star —■’ ” 

u Yonner ’tar,” piped Margaret-Mary. 

“ Yon-der-er ste-yar,” trailed Teddy’s falsetto. 

“ ‘ Oh, star of wonder, star of might, 

Star with royal beauty bright, 

Westward leading, still proceeding, 

Guide us to the perfect light —’ ” 

Twenty-four hours ago Hilda’s book had lain 
where the purple camels now played their little 
314 


JEAN PLAYS PROXY 


part in the great Christmas drama. In the soul of 
the stricken old man on the bed entered something 
of the peace of the holy season. 

“ Oh, ’tar of wonner —” 

“ Ste-yar of wonder-er —” chimed the little 
voices. 

When the song was finished, Margaret-Mary made 
a little curtsey and Teddy made a manly bow, and 
then they took their purple camels and left the 
tree on the table with its one small candle burning. 

The General laid his left hand over Jean's — his 
right was useless — and said to Derry: “ Your 

mother’s jewels are my Christmas gift to her. No 
matter what happens, I want her to have them.” 

The evening waned, and the General still held 
Jean’s hand. Every bone in her body ached. 
Never before had she grown weary in the service of 
others. She told herself as she sat there that she 
had always been a sort of sugar-and-spice-and- 
everything-nice sort of person. It was only fair 
that she should have her share of hardness. 

The nurse begged her in a whisper to leave the 
General. “ He won't know.” But when Jean 
moved, that poor left hand tightened on hers and 
she shook her head. 

Then Derry came and sat with his arm about her. 
“ My darling, you must rest.” 

She laid her head against her husband’s shoulder, 
315 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


as he sat beside her. After a while she slept, and 
the nurse unlocked the clinging old fingers, and 
Derry carried his little wife to bed. 

And so Christmas passed, and the other days, 
wonderful days in spite of the shadow which hung 
oyer the big house. For youth and love laugh at 
forebodings and they pushed as far back into their 
minds as possible, the thought of the thing which 
had to be faced. 

But at last Derry faced it. “ It is my self-re¬ 
spect, Jean.” 

They were sitting in her room with Muffin, wist¬ 
ful and devoted, on the rug at Jean’s feet. The 
old dog, having been banished at first by Bron¬ 
son, had viewed his master’s wife with distrust. 
Gradually she had won him over, so that now, when 
she was not in the room, he hunted up a shoe or a 
glove, and sat with it until she came back. 

"It is my self-respect, Jean-Joan.” 

She admitted that. “ But — ? ” 

“ I can’t stay out of the fighting and call myself 
a man. It has come to that with me.” 

She knew that it had come to that. She had 
thought a great deal about it. She lay awake at 
night thinking about it. She thought of it as she 
sat by the General’s bed, day after day, holding his 
hand. 

The doctor’s report had been cautious, but it had 
amounted to this — the General might live to a 
316 


JEAN PLAYS PROXY 


0 reen old age, some men rallied remarkably after 
such a shock. He rather thought the General might 
rally, but then again he might not, and anyhow he 
would be tied for months, perhaps for years, to his 
chair. 

The old man was giving to his daughter-in-law an 
affection compounded of that which he had given to 
his wife and to his son. It was as if in coming up 
the stairs in her white gown on her wedding day, 
Jean had brought a bit of Edith back to him. For 
deep in his heart he knew that without her, Derry 
would not have come. 

So he clung pathetically to that little hand, 
which seemed the only anchor in his sea of loneli¬ 
ness. Pathetically his old eyes begged her to stay. 
“ You won’t leave me, Jean? ” And she would 
promise, and sit day after day and late into the 
night, holding his hand. 

And as she sat with him, there grew up gradually 
within her a conviction which strengthened as the 
days went by. She could tell the very moment 
when she had first thought of it. She had left the 
General with Bronson while she went to dress for 
dinner. Derry was waiting for her, and usually 
she would have flown to him, glad of the moment 
when they might be together. But something 
halted her at the head of the stairs. It was as if a 
hand had been put in front of her, barring the way. 

The painted lady was looking at her with smiling 
317 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


eyes, but back of the eyes she seemed to discern a 
wistful appeal —“ I want you to stay. No matter 
what happens I beg that you will stay.” 

But Jean didn’t want to stay. All the youth in 
ier rebelled against the thing that she saw ahead 
of her. She yearned to be free — to live and love 
as she pleased, not a prisoner in that shadowed 
room. 

So she pushed it away from her, and so there came 
one morning a letter from her father. 

u Drusilla went over on the same boat. It was a 
surprising thing to find her there. Since I landed, 
I haven’t seen her. But I met Captain Hewes in 
Baris, and he was looking for her. 

u I had never known how fine she was until those 
Jays on the boat. It was wonderful on the nights 
when everything was darkened and we were feeling 
our way through the danger zone, to have her sing 
for us. I believe we should all have gone to the 
bottom singing with her if a submarine had sunk us. 

“ I am finding myself busier than I have ever been 
before, finding myself, indeed, facing the most stu¬ 
pendous thing in the world. It isn’t the wounded 
men or the dead men or the heart-breaking aspect 
of the refugees that gets me, it is the sight of the 
devastated country — made barren and blackened 
into hell not by devils, but by those who have called 
themselves men. When I think of our own coun¬ 
try, ready soon to bud and bloom with the spring, 
and of this country where spring will come and go, 
oh, many springs, before there will be bud and 
bloom, I am overwhelmed by the tragic contrast. 

318 


JEAN PLAYS PROXY 


How can we laugh oyer there when they are crying 
here? Perhaps more than anything else, the dif¬ 
ference in conditions was brought home to me as I 
motored the other day through a country where 
there was absolutely no sign of life, not a tree or a 
bird — except those war birds, the aeroplanes, hov¬ 
ering above the horizon. 

“ Well, as we stopped our car for some slight re¬ 
pairs, there rose up from a deserted trench, a lean 
cat with a kitten in her mouth. Oh, such a starved 
old cat, Jean, gray and war-worn. And her kitten 
was little and blind, and when she had laid it at 
our feet, she went back and got another. Then she 
stood over them, mewing, her eyes big and hungry. 
But she was not afraid of us, or if she was afraid, 
she stood her ground, asking help for those help¬ 
less babies. 

“ Jean, I thought of Polly Ann. Of all the petted 
Polly Anns in America, and then of this starved 
old thing, and they seemed so typical. You are 
playing the glad game over there, and it is easy to 
play it with enough to eat and plenty to wear, and 
away from the horror of it all. But how could that 
old pussy-cat be glad, how could she be anything 
but frightened and hungry and begging my help ? 

“ Well, we took her in. We had some food with 
us, and we gave her all she could eat, and then she 
curled up on a pile of bags in the bottom of the car, 
and lay there with her kittens, as happy as if we 
were not going lickety-split over the shell-torn 
spaces. 

“ And that your tender heart may be at rest, I 
may as well tell you that she and the kittens 
are living in great content in a country house where 
319 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


one of the officers who was in the car with ns is in* 
stalled. We have named her Dolores, but it is 
ceasing to be appropriate. She is no longer sad, 
and while she is on somewhat slim fare like the rest 
of us, she is a great hunter and catches mice in the 
barn, so that she is growing strong and smooth, and 
she is not, perhaps, to be pitied as much as Polly 
Ann on her pink cushion. 

“ And here I am writing about cats, while the 
only thing that is really in my heart is — You. 

“ Ever since the moment I left you, I have carried 
with me the vision of you in your wedding gown — 
my dear, my dear. Perhaps it is just as well that 
I left when I did, for I am most inordinately jealous 
of Derry, not only because he has you, but because 
he has love and life before him, while I, already, am 
looking back. 

“ My work here is, as you would say,‘ wonderful/ 
How I should like to hear you say it! There are 
things which in all my years of practice, I have 
never met before. How could I meet them? It 
has taken this generation of doctors to wrestle with 
the problem of treating men tortured by gas, and 
with nerves shaken by sights and sounds without 
parallel in the history of the world. 

“ But I am not going to tell you of it. I would 
rather tell you how much I love you and miss you, 
and how glad I am that you are not here to see it 
all. Yet I would have all Americans think of those 
who are here, and I would have you help until it — 
hurts. You must know, my Jean, how moved I am 
by it, when I ask you, whom I have always shielded, 
to give help until it hurts — 

“ I have had a letter from Hilda. She wants to 
320 


JEAN PLAYS PROXY 


come over. I haven’t answered the letter. But 
when I do, I shall tell her that there may be some¬ 
thing that she can do, but it will not be with me. 
I need women who can see the pathos of such things 
as that starved cat and kittens out there among the 
shell-holes, and Hilda would never have seen it. 
She would have left the cat to starve.” 

Jean found herself crying over the letter. “ I am 
not helping at all, Derry.” 

“ My dear, you are.” 

“ I am not. I am just sitting on a pink cushion, 
like Polly Ann —” 

It was the first flash he had seen for days of her 
girlish petulance. He smiled. “ That sounds like 
the Jean of yesterday.” 

“ Did you like the Jean of yesterday better than 
the Jean of to-day? ” 

“ There is only one J ean for me — yesterday, to¬ 
day and forever.” 

She stood a little away from him. “ Derry, I’ve 
been thinking and thinking—” 

He put a finger under her chin and turned her 
face up to him. “What have you been thinking, 
Jean-Joan? ” 

“ That you must go — and I will take care of 
your father.” 

“ You?” 

“Yes. Why not, Derry?” 

“ I won’t have you sacrificed.” 

321 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


a But you want me to be brave.” 

“ Yes. But not burdened. I won’t have it, my 
dear.” 

“ But — you promised your mother. I am sure 
she would be glad to let me keep your promise.” 

She was brave now. Braver than he knew. 

“ I can’t see it,” he said, fiercely. “ I can see 
myself leaving you with Emily, in your own house 
—- to live your own life. But not to sit in Dad’s 
room, day after day, sacrificing your youth as I 
sacrificed my childhood and boyhood — my man¬ 
hood —. I am over thirty, Jean, and I have always 
been treated like a boy. It isn’t right, Jean; onr 
lives are our own, not his.” 

“ It is right. Nobody’s life seems to be his own 
in these days. And you must go — and I can’t 
leave him. He is so old, and helpless, Derry, like 
the poor pussy-cat over there in France. His eyes 
are like that — hungry, and they beg —. And oh, 
Derry, I mustn’t be like Polly Ann, on a pink 
cushion—.” 

She tried to laugh and broke down. He caught 
her up in his arms. Light as thistledown, young 
and lovely! 

She sobbed on his heart, but she held to her 
high resolve. He must go — and she would stay. 
And at last he gave in. 

He had loved her dearly, but he had not looked 
for this, that she would give herself to hardness for 
322 


JEAN PLAYS PROXY 


the sake of another. For the first time he saw in 
his little wife something of the heroic quality which 
had seemed to set his mother apart and above, as it 
were, all other women. 


823 











BOOK THEEE 


The Bugle Calls 

The wooden trumpeters that were carved on the door blew 
with all their might, so that their cheeks were much larger 
than before. Yes, they blew “ Trutter-a-trutt — trutter-a- 

trutt—” . • . 














/ 

















CHAPTER XXIII 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 

Jean’s world was no longer wonderful — not in 
the sense that it had once been, with all the glamour 
of girlish dreams and of youthful visions. 

She had never thought of life as a thing like this 
in the days when she had danced down to the con¬ 
fectioner’s, intent on good times. 

But now, with her father away, with Derry away* 
with the city frozen and white, and with not 
enough coal to go around, with many of the rooms 
in the house shut that fuel might be conserved, with 
Margaret and the children and Nurse installed as 
guests at the General’s until the weather grew 
warmer, with Emily transforming her Toy Shop 
into a surgical dressings station, and with her 
father-in-law turning over to her incredible amounts 
of money for the Red Cross and Liberty Bonds and 
War Stamps, life began to take on new aspects of 
responsibility and seriousness. 

She could never have kept her balance in the 
midst of it all, if Derry had not written every day. 
Her father wrote every day, also, but there were 
long intervals between his letters, and then they 
were apt to arrive all at once, a great packet of 
them, to be read and re-read and passed around. 

327 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


But Derry’s letters, brought to her room every 
morning by Bronson, contained the elixir which 
sent her to her day’s work with shining eyes and 
flushed cheeks. Sometimes she read bits of them to 
Bronson. Sometimes, indeed, there were only a 
few lines for herself, for Derry was being inten¬ 
sively trained in a Southern camp, working like an 
ant, with innumerable other ants, all in olive-drab, 
with different colored cords around their hats. 

Sometimes she read bits of the letters to Margaret 
at breakfast, and after breakfast she would go up 
to the General and read everything to him except 
the precious words which Derry had meant for her 
very own self. 

And then she and the General would tell each 
other how really extraordinary Deny was! 

It was a never-failing subject, of intense interest 
to both of them. For there was always this to rev 
member, that if the world was no longer a radiant 
and shining world, if the day’s task was hard, and 
if now and then in the middle of the night she wept 
tears of loneliness, if there were heavy things to 
bear, and hard things and sad things, one fact 
shone brilliantly above all others, Derry was as 
wonderful as ever! 

“ There was never such a boy,” the General would 
chant in his deep bass. 

“ Never,” Jean would pipe in her clear treble. 

And when they had chorused thus for a while, the 
328 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 


General would dictate a letter to Derry, for his 
hand was shaky, and Jean would write it out for 
him, and then she would write a letter of her own, 
and after that the day was blank, and the night 
until the next morning when another letter came. 

So she lived from letter to letter. 

“ You have never seen Washington like this,” she 
wrote one day in February, “ we keep only a little 
fire in the furnace, and I am wearing flannels for 
the first time in my life. We dine in sweaters, and 
the children are round and rosy in the cold. And 
the food steams in the icy air of the dining room, 
and you can’t imagine how different it all is — 
with the servants bundled up like the rest of us. 
We keep your father warm by burning wood in the 
fireplace of his room, and we have given half the 
coal in the cellar to people who haven’t any.” 

“ I am helping Cook with the conservation menus, 
and it is funny to see how topsy-turvy everything 
is. It is perfectly patriotic to eat mushrooms and 
lobsters and squabs and ducklings, and it is un¬ 
patriotic to serve sausages and wheat cakes. And 
Cook can’t get adjusted to it. She will insist upon 
bacon for breakfast, because well-regulated families 
since the Flood have eaten bacon — and she feels 
that in some way we are sacrificing self-respect or 
our social status when we refrain. 

u Your father is such an old dear, Derry. He has 
war bread and milk for lunch, and I carry it to 
him myself in the pretty old porcelain bowl that he 
likes so much. 

“ It was one day when I brought the milk that ho 
spoke of Hilda. ‘ Where is she? ’ 

329 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


“ I told him that she was still in town, and that 
you had given her a check which would carry her 
over a year or two, and he said that he was glad — 
that he should not like to see her suffer. The porce¬ 
lain bowl had reminded him of her. She had asked 
him once what it cost, and after she had found out, 
she had never used it. She evidently stood quite 
in awe of anything so expensive. 

“ Your mother and I are getting to be very good 
friends, dearest. When I am dreadfully homesick 
for you, I go and sit on the stairs, and she smiles at 
me. It is terribly cold in the hall, and I wrap my¬ 
self up in your fur coat, and it is almost like having 
your arms around me.” 

She was surely making the best of things, this 
little Jean, when she found comfort in being moth¬ 
ered by a painted lady on the stairs, and in being 
embraced by a fur coat which had once been worn 
by her husband! 

She kept Derry’s tin soldier, which Drusilla had 
given him, on her desk. “ You shall have him when 
you go to Prance, but until then he is a good little 
comrade, and I say ‘ Good-morning ’ to him and 
< Good night.’ Yet I sometimes wonder whether he 
likes it there on the shelf, and whether he is crying, 
*1 want to go to the wars —’ ” 

She was very busy every morning in Emily’s 
room, working on the surgical dressings. She 
hated it all. She hated the oakum and the gauze, 
the cotton and the compresses, the pneumonia 
330 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 


jackets and the split-irrigation pads, the wipes, the 
triangulars, the many-tailed and the scultetus. 
Other women might speak lightly of five-yard rolls 
as dressing for stumps, of paper-backs “ used in 
the treatment of large suppurating w r ounds.” Jean 
shivered and turned white at these things. Her 
vivid imagination went beyond the little work-room 
with its white-veiled women to those hospitals back 
of the battle line where mutilated men lay waiting 
for the compresses and the wipes and the bandages, 
men in awful agony —. 

But the lesson she was learning was that of 
harnessing her emotions to the day’s work; and if 
her world was no longer wonderful in a care-free 
sense, it was a rather splendid world of unselfish¬ 
ness and self-sacrifice, although she was not con¬ 
scious of this, but felt it vaguely. 

She wore now, most of the time, her nun’s frock 
of gray, which had seemed to foreshadow some¬ 
thing of her future on that glorified day when 
Derry had first come to her. She had laid awrny 
many of her lovely things, and one morning Teddy 
remarked on the change. 

“ You don’t dwess up any more.” 

Nurse stood back of his chair. “ Dress —” 

“ Dur-wess.” 

“ Don’t you like this dress, Teddy? ” 

“ I liked the boo one.” 

" Blue —” 


331 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


“Ble-yew, an’ the pink one, and all the shiny 
ones you used to wear at night.” 

“ Blue dresses and pink dresses and shiny dresses 
cost a lot of money, Teddy, and I shouldn’t have 
any money left for Thrift Stamps.” 

Thrift stamps were a language understood by 
Teddy, as he would not have understood the larger 
transactions of Liberty Bonds. He and the General 
held long conversations as to the best means of ob¬ 
taining a large supply of stamps, and the General 
having listened to Margaret who wanted the boy to 
work for his offering, suggested an entrancing plan. 
Teddy was to feed the fishes in the dining-room 
aquarium, he was to feed Muffin, and he was to feed 
Polly Ann. 

It sounded simple, but there were difficulties. 
In the first place he had to face Cook, and Cook 
hated to have children in the kitchen. 

“ But you’d have to face more than that if you 
were grown up and in the trenches. And Hodgson 
is really very kind.” 

“ Well, she doesn't look kind, Mother.” 

“ Why not? ” 

“ Well, she doesn’t smile, and her face is wed.” 

“ Red, dear.” 

“ Ur-ed —. And w r hen I ask her for milk for 
Polly, she says i Milk for cats,’ and when she gets it 
out, she slams the ’frigerator door.” 

“ Refrigerator, dear.” 

332 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 


“ Rif-iggerator.” 

But in the main Teddy went to his task val¬ 
iantly. He conserved bones for Muffin and left-over 
corn-meal cakes. Polly Ann dined rather monot¬ 
onously on fish boiled with war-bread crusts, on the 
back of Cook’s big range. Hodgson was conscien¬ 
tious and salted it and cooled it, and kept it in a 
little covered granite pail, and it was from this pail 
that Teddy ladled stew into Polly Ann’s blue saucer. 
“ Mother says it is very good of you, Hodgson, to 
take so much trouble.” 

Hodgson, whose face was redder than ever, as she 
broiled mushrooms for lunch, grunted, “ I’d rather 
do it than have other people rnessin’ around.” 

Teddy surveyed her anxiously. “ You don’t mind 
having me here, do you, Hodgson? ” 

His cheeks were rosy, his bronze hair bright, his 
sturdy legs planted a trifle apart, Polly’s dish in one 
hand, the big spoon in the other. “ No, I don’t 
mind,” she admitted, but it was some time before 
she acknowledged even to herself how glad she was 
when that bright figure appeared. 

Feeding the fishes presented few problems, and 
gradually thrift stamps filled the little book, and 
there was a war stamp, and more thrift stamps and 
more war stamps, and Muffin and Polly Ann waxed 
fat and friendly, and were a very lion and lamb for 
lying down together. 

Then there came a day when Teddy, feeding the 
333 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


fishes in the aquarium, heard somebody say that 
Hodgson’s son was in the war. 

He went at once to the kitchen. “Why didn’t 
you tell me? ” he asked the cook, standing in front 
of her where she sat cutting chives and peppers and 
celery on a little board for salad. 

“ Tell you what? ” 

“ That your boy was in Fwance.” 

Hodgson’s red face grew redder, and to Teddy’s 
consternation, a tear ran down her cheek. 

He stood staring at her, then flew upstairs to his 
mother. “ Cook’s cryin’.” 

“ Teddy —” 

“ She is. Because her son is in Fwance.” 

After that when he went down to get things for 
Muffin and Polly Ann, he said how s’prised he was 
and how nice it was now that he knew, and wasn’t 
she pr-roud? And he fancied that Hodgson was 
kinder and softer. She told him the name of her 
son. It was Charley, and she and Teddy talked a 
great deal about Charley, and Teddy sent him some 
chocolate, and Hodgson told Margaret. “ He’s a 
lovely boy, Mrs. Morgan. May you never raise him 
to fight.” 

“ I should want him to be as brave as his father, 
Hodgson.” 

“ Yes. My boy’s brave, but it was hard to let 
him go.” Then, struck by the look on Margaret’s 
face, she said, “ Forgive me, ma’am; if mine is taken 
334 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 


from me, I’d like to feel as you do. You ain’t 
makin’ other people unhappy over it.” 

“ I think it is because my husband still lives for 
me, Hodgson.” 

Hodgson cried into her apron. “ It ain’t all of 
us that has your faith. But if I loses him, I’ll do 
my best.” 

And so the painted lady on the stairs saw all the 
sinister things that Hilda had brought into the big 
house swept out of it. She saw Hodgson the cook 
trying to be brave, and bringing up Margaret’s tea 
in the afternoons for the sake of the moment when 
she might speak of her boy to one who would under¬ 
stand; she saw Emily, coming home dead tired 
after a hard day’s work, but with her face illumined. 
She saw Margaret smiling, with tears in her heart, 
she saw Jean putting aside childish things to be¬ 
come one of the women that the world needed. 

Brave women all of them, women with a vision, 
women raised to heroic heights by the need of the 
hour! 

The men, too, were heroic. Indeed, the General, 
trying to control his appetite, was almost pathetic¬ 
ally heroic. He had given up sugar, although he 
hated his coffee without it, and he had a little boy’s 
appetite for pies and cakes. 

“ When the war is over,” he told Teddy, “ we will 
order a cake that’s as high as a house, and we will 
eat it together.” 


335 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


Teddy giggled. “ With frostin’? ” 

“ Yes. I remember when Derry was a lad that 
we used to tell him the story of the people who 
baked a cake so big that they had to climb ladders 
to reach the top. Well, that’s the kind of cake 
we’ll have.” 

Yet while he made a joke of it, he confessed to 
Jean. “ It is harder than fighting battles. I’d 
rather face a gun than deny myself the things that 
I like to eat and drink.” 

Bronson was contributing to the Bed Cross and 
buying Liberty Bonds, and that was brave of Bron¬ 
son. For Bronson was close, and the hardest thing 
that he had to do was to part with his money, or to 
take less interest than his rather canny investments 
had made possible. 

And Teddy, the man of his family, came one morn¬ 
ing to his mother. “ I’ve just got to do it,” he said 
in a rather shaky voice. 

“ Do what, dear? ” 

“ Send my books to the soldiers.” 

She let him do it, although she knew how it tore 
his heart. You see, there were the Jungle Books, 
which he knew the soldiers would like, and “ Treas¬ 
ure Island,” and “ The Swiss Family Bobinson,” 
and “ Huckleberry Finn.” He brought his fairy 
books, too, and laid them on the altar of patriotism, 
and “Toby Tyler,” which had been his father’s, 
and “ Under the Lilacs,” which he adored because 
336 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 

of little brown-faced Ben and his dog, Saneho. 

He was rapturously content when his mother de¬ 
cided that the fairy books and Toby and brown- 
faced Ben might still be his companions. " You 
see the soldiers are men, dear, and they probably 
read these when they were little boys.” 

".But won’t I w^ead them wiien I grow up ; 
Mother? ” 

“ You may want to read older books.” 

But Teddy was secretly resolved that age should 
not wither nor custom stale the charms of the be¬ 
loved volumes. And that he should love them to 
the end. His mother thought that he might grow 
tired of them some day and told him so, 

“ I can wead them to my little boys/’ he said, 
hopefully, " and to their little boys after that/’ and 
having thus established a long line of prospective 
worshippers of his own special gods, he turned to 
other things. 

General Drake, growing gradually better, went 
now and then in his warm closed car for a ride 
through the Park. Usually Jean was with him, or 
Bronson, and now and then Nurse with the children. 

It was one morning when the children were with 
him that he said to Nurse: “ Take them into the 
Lion House for a half hour. I’ll drive around and 
come back for you.” 

Nurse demurred. “ You are sure that you won’t 
mind being left, sir ? ” 


337 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“Why not?” sharply. “I am perfectly able to 
take care of myself.” 

He watched them go in, then he gave orders to 
drive at once to the Connecticut Avenue entrance. 

A woman stood by the gate, a tall woman in a 
long blue cloak and a close blue bonnet. In the 
clear cold, her coloring showed vivid pink and 
white. The General spoke through the tube; the 
chauffeur descended and opened the door. 

“ If you will get in,” the General said to the 
woman, “ you can tell me what you have to say —” 

“ Perhaps I should not have asked it,” Hilda 
said, hesitating, “but I had seen you riding in the 
Park, and I thought of this way — I couldn’t, of 
course, come to the house.” 

u No.” He had sunk down among his robes. 
“ No.” 

“ I felt that perhaps you had been led to — mis¬ 
understand.” {She came directly to the point. “ I 
wanted to know — what I had done — what had 
made the difference. I couldn’t believe that you 
had not meant what you said.” 

He stirred uneasily. “ I have been very ill —” 

Her long white hands were ungloved, the dia¬ 
monds that he had given her sparkled as she drew 
the ring off slowly. “ I felt that I ought to give you 
.this — if it was all really over.” 

“ It is all over. But keep it — please.” 

66 1 should like to keep it,” she admitted frankly, 
338 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 


46 'because, you see, I’ve never had a ring like this” 

It was the Cophetua and Beggar Maid motif but 
it left him cold. “ Hilda,” he said, “ I saw you that 
night trying on my wife’s jewels. That was my 
reason.” 

She was plainly disconcerted. “ But that was 
child’s play. I had never had anything — it was 
like a child — dressing up.” 

“ It was not like that to me. I think I had been 
a rather fatuous fool — thinking that there might 
be in me something that you might care for. But I 
knew then that without my money — you wouldn’t 
care —” 

“ People’s motives are always mixed,” she told 
Mm. “ You know that.” 

u Yes, I know.” 

u You liked me because I was young and made 
you feel young. I liked you because you could give 
me things.” 

“ Yes. But now the glamour is gone. You make 
me feel a thousand years old, Hilda.” 

u Why? ” in great surprise. 

“ Because I know that if I had no wealth to offer 
you, you would see me for what I am, an aged 
broken creature for whom you have no tender¬ 
ness —” 

It was time for him to be getting back to the 
Lion House. They stopped again at the gate. “ If 
you will keep the ring,” he said, “ I shall be glad to 
339 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


think that you have it. Jean says Derry gave you 
a check. If it is not enough to buy pink parasols, 
will you let me give you another? ” He was speak- 
ing with the ease of his accustomed manner. 

“ No; I am not an — adventuress, though you 
seem to think that I am, and to condemn me for it.” 

“ I condemn you only for one thing — for that 
fiat bottle behind the books.” 

“ But you wanted it.” 

“ For that reason you should have kept it away. 
You should have obeyed orders.” 

“ You asked me to doff my cap, so I — doffed my 
discipline.” She was standing on the ground, hold¬ 
ing the door open as she talked; again he was aware 
of the charm of her pink and white. 

“ Good-bye, Hilda.” He reached out his hand to 
her. 

She took it. “ I am going to France.” 

“ When? ” 

“ As soon as I can.” She stepped back and the 
door was shut between them. As the car turned, 
Hilda waved her hand, and the General had a sense 
of sudden keen regret as the tall cloaked figure with 
its look of youth and resoluteness faded into the 
distance. 

When he reached the Lion House the children 
were waiting. “Did you hear him roar?” Teddy 
asked as he climbed in. 

“ No.” 


340 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 

“ Well, be did, and we came out ’cause it f wight- 
ened Peggy.” 

“ Frightened —” from Nurse. 

“ Fr-ightened. But I liked the leopards best.” 

“ Why? ” 

“ Because they’re pre-itty.” 

“ You can’t always trust — pretty things.” 

“ Can't you tre-ust — leopards — General 
Drake? ” 

The General was not sure, and presently he fell 
into silence. His mind was on a pretty woman 
whom he could not trust. 

That night he said to Jean, “ Hilda is going to 
France.” 

“ Oh — how do you know? ” 

“ I met her in the Park.” 

He was sitting, very tired, in his big chair. 
Jean’s little hand was in his. 

“ Poor Hilda,” he said at last, looking into the 
fire, as if he saw there the vision of his lost dreams. 

“ Oh, no —” Jean protested. 

“ Yes, my dear, there is so much that is good in 
the worst of us, and so much that is bad in the 
best — and perhaps she struggles with temptations 
which never assail you.” 

Jean’s lips were set in an obstinate line. 
“ Daddy was always saying things like that about 
Hilda.” 

“ Well, we men are apt to be charitable — to 
341 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


beauty in distress.” The General was keenly and 
humorously aware that if Hilda had been ugly, he 
might not have been so anxious about the pink par¬ 
asol. He might not, indeed, have pitied her at all! 

And now in Jean’s heart grew up a sharply de¬ 
fined fear of Hilda. In the old days there had been 
cordial dislike, jealousy, perhaps, but never any¬ 
thing like this. The question persisted in the back 
of her mind. If Hilda went to France, would she 
see Daddy and weave her wicked spells. To find 
the General melting into pity, in spite of the chaos 
which Hilda’s treachery had created, was to won¬ 
der if Daddy, too, might melt. 

She wrote to Derry about it. 

“ I would try and see her if I knew what to say, 
but when I even think of it I am scared. I never 
liked her, and I feel now as if I should be glad 
to pin together the pages of my memory of her, 
as I pinned together the pages of one of my story 
books when I was a little girl. There was a shark 
under water in the picture and two men were trying 
to get away from him. I hated that picture and 
shivered every time I looked at it, so I stuck in a 
pin and shut out the sight of it. 

“ Your father has had two letters from her since 
the day when he saw her in the Park. Bronson al¬ 
ways brings the mail to me, and you know what a 
distinctive hand Hilda writes, there is no mistak¬ 
ing it. Your father dropped the letters into the 
fire, but she ought not to write to him, Derry, and 
I should like to tell her so. 

342 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 


“ But if I told her, she would laugh at me, aud 
that would be the end of it. For you can’t rage and 
tear and rant at a thing that is as cold as stone. 
Oh, my dearest, I need you so much to tell me what 
to do, and yet I would not have you here — 

“ I met Alma Drew the other day, and she said, 
as lightly as you please, 4 Do you know, I can’t 
quite fancy Derry Drake in the trenches.’ 

44 I looked at her for a minute before I could an¬ 
swer, and then I said, 4 1 can fancy him with his 
back to the wall, fighting a thousand Huns —! ’ 

44 She shrugged her shoulders, 4 You’re terribly in 
love.’ 

44 4 1 am,’ I said, and I hope I said it calmly, 4 but 
there’s more than love in a woman’s belief in her 
husband’s bravery — there’s respect. And it’s some¬ 
thing rather — sacred, Alma.’ And then I choked 
up and couldn’t say another word, and she looked 
at me in a rather stunned fashion for a moment, 
and then she said, 4 Gracious Peter, do you love him 
like that? ’ and I said, 4 1 do,’ and she laughed in a 
funny little way, and said, 4 1 thought it was his 
millions.’ 

44 1 was perfectly furious. But you can’t argue 
with such people. I know I was as white as a 
sheet. 4 If anything should happen to Derry,’ I 
said, 4 do you think that all the money in the world 
would comfort me? ’ 

44 She stopped smiling. 4 It would comfort me,’ 
then suddenly she held out her hand. 4 But I 
fancy you’re different, and Derry is a lucky fellow.’ 
which was rather nice and human of her, wasn’t 
it? 

44 Life is growing more complicated than ever 
343 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


here in Washington. The crowds pour in as if the 
Administration were a sort of Pied Piper and had 
played a tune, and the people who have lived here 
all their lives are waking to something like activity. 
Great buildings are going up as if some Aladdin had 
rubbed a lamp —. None of us are doing the things 
we used to do. We don’t even talk about the 
things we used to talk about, and we go around in 
blue gingham and caps, and white linen and veils, 
and we hand out sandwiches to the soldiers and 
sailors, and drive perfectly strange men in our cars 
on Government errands, and make Liberty Bond 
speeches from many platforms, and all the old theo* 
ries of what women should do are forgotten in the 
rush of the things which must be done by women. 
It is as if we had all been bewitched and turned into 
somebody else. 

“ Well, I wish that Hilda could be turned into 
somebody else. Into somebody as nice as — 
Emily—. But she won’t be. She hasn’t been 
changed the least bit by the war, and everybody 
else has, even Alma, or she wouldn’t have said that 
about your being lucky to have me. Are you lucky, 
Derry? 

“ And when Hilda sets her mind on a thing —. 
Oh, I can’t seem to talk of anything but Hilda — 
when she sets her mind on anything, she gets it in 
one way or another—and that’s why I am afraid 
of her.” 

Derry wrote back. 

“ Don’t be afraid of anything, Jean-Joan. And 
it won’t do any good to talk to Hilda. I don’t 
want you to talk to her. You are too much of a 
344 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 

white angel to contend against the powers of dark 
ness. 

“ As for my luck in having you, it is something 
which transcends luck — it just hits the stars, dear¬ 
est. 

“ I wonder what thee fellows do who haven’t any 
wives to anchor themselves to in a time like this? 
Through all the day I have this hour in mind when 
I can write to you — and I think there are lots of 
other fellows like that — for I can see them all 
about me here in the Hut, bending over their letters 
with a look on their faces which isn’t there at any 
other time. 

“ By Jove, Jean-Joan, I never knew before what 
women meant in the lives of men. Here we are 
marooned, as it were, on an island of masculinity, 
yet it isn’t what the other fellows think of us that 
counts, it is what you think who are miles away. 
Always in the back of our minds is the thought of 
what you expect of us and demand of us, and added 
to what we demand and expect of ourselves, it sways 
us level. We don’t talk a great deal about you, but 
now and then some fellow says, ‘ My wife,’ and we 
all prick up our ears and want to hear the rest of it. 

“ It is a great life, dearest, in spite of the hard 
work, in spite of the stress and strain. And to me 
who have known so little of the great human game 
it is a great revelation. 

“ In the first place, there has been brought to me 
the knowledge of the joy of real labor. I shall 
never again be sorry for the man who toils. You 
see, I had never toiled, not in the sense that a man 
does whose labor counts. I was always a rather 
anxious and lonely little boy, looking after my 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


father and trying to help my mother, and feeling a 
bit of a mollycoddle because I had a tutor and did 
not go to school with the other chaps. In the eyes 
of the world I was looked upon as a lucky fellow, 
but I know now what I have missed. In these days 
I am rubbing elbows wdth fellow's who have had to 
hustle, and I am discovering that life is a great 
game, and that I have missed the game. If Dad 
had been different, he might have pushed me into 
things, as some men with money push their sons, 
making them stand on their own feet. But Dad liked 
an easy life, and he was perhaps entitled to ease, 
for he had struggled in his younger years. But I 
have never struggled. I have always had somebody 
to brush my clothes and to bring my breakfast, and 
I think I have had a sort of hazy idea that life w T as 
like that for everybody — or if it wasn’t, then the 
people who couldn't be brushed and breakfasted by 
others were much to be pitied. 

“ Oh, I’ve been a Tin Soldier, Jean-Joan, left out 
not only of the war but of life. I’ve been on the 
shelf all these years in our big house, with the 
wooden trumpets blowing, 6 Trutter-a-trutt ’ while 
other men have striven. 

“ When I first came here I had a sort of detached 
feeling. I had no experiences to match with the 
experiences of other men. I had never had to rush 
in the morning to catch a subway, I had never eaten, 
to put it poetically, by candlelight, so that I might 
get to the store by eight. I had never sold papers, 
or plowed fields, or stood behind a counter. I had 
never sat at a desk, I had never in fact done any¬ 
thing really useful, I had just been rich, and that 
isn't much of a background as I am beginning to 
see it here —. 


346 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 


“ I find myself having a rather strange feeling of 
exaltation as the days go by, because for the first 
time I am a cog in a great machine, for the first 
time I am toiling and sweating as I rather think it 
was intended that men should toil and sweat. And 
the friends that I am making are the sign and seal 
of the levelling effects of this great war. Not one of 
the men of what you might call my own class in¬ 
terests me half as much as Tommy Tracy, who be¬ 
fore he entered the service drove the car of one of 
Dad’s business associates. I have often ridden be¬ 
hind Tommy, but he doesn’t know it. And I don’t 
intend that he shall. He rather fancies that I am 
a scholarly chap torn from my books, and he patron¬ 
izes me on the strength of his knowledge of prac¬ 
tical things. 

“ Tommy likes to eat, and he talks a great deal 
about his mother’s cooking. He says there was al¬ 
ways tripe for Sunday mornings, and corned beef 
and cabbage on Mondays, and Monday was wash¬ 
day! 

“ I wish you could hear him tell what wash-day 
meant to him. It is a sort of poem, the way he puts 
It. He doesn’t know that it is poetry, though 
Yachell Lindsay would, or Masters, or some of those 
fellows. 

“ It seems that he used to help his mother, be¬ 
cause he was a strong little fellow, and could turn 
the wringer, and they would get up very ^arlv be¬ 
cause he had to go to school, and in the spring and 
summer they washed out of doors, under a tree in 
the yard, and his mother’s eyes were bright and her 
cheeks were red and her arms were white, and she 
was always laughing. There’s a memory for a man 
on the battlefield, dearest, a healthy, hearty memory 
347 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


©f the day’s work of a boy, and of a bright-eyed 
mother, and of a good dinner at the end of hours of 
toil. 

“ Perhaps with such a mother it isn’t surprising 
that Tommy has made so much of himself. He has 
aspirations far beyond driving some other man’s 
car, and if he keeps on he’ll have a little flivver of 
his own before he knows it — when the war ends, 
and he can strike out, with his energy at the boil¬ 
ing point. 

“ There are a lot of men who have belonged not 
to the idle rich, but to the idle poor, and the disci¬ 
pline of this life is just the thing for them as it is for 
me. It rather contradicts the kindergarten idea of 
play as a preparation for life. These busy men, 
forced to be busy, are a thousand times more self- 
respecting than if left to lead the listless lives that 
were theirs before their country called them. I 
wonder if, after all, Kipling isn’t right, and that 
the hump and hoof and haunch of it all isn’t obe¬ 
dience? Not slavish obedience, but obedience 
founded on a knowledge of one’s place and value in 
the pack? ” 

Jean, striving to follow Derry’s point of view, 
found herself floundering. 

“ I am glad you like it, but I don’t see how you 
can. And you mustn’t say that you’ve always been 
a Tin Soldier on a shelf. I won’t have it. And 
you have played the game of life just as bravely as 
Tommy Tracy, only your problems were different —. 
And if you can’t remember wash days you can re¬ 
member other days —. But I like to have you tell 
me about it, because I can see you, listening to 
348 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 


Tommy and laughing at him. I adore your laugh. 
Berry, though I shouldn’t be telling you, should 
I — ? I have pasted the picture you sent me of 
you and Tommy in my memory book and have writ¬ 
ten under it, ‘ When you and I were young, Tommy 9 
and I’ve drawn a cloud of steam above Tommy, 
with washboilers — and tubs — and cabbages and 
soap suds, and his mother’s face smiling in the 
midst of it all —. And in your cloud is your 
mother smiling, too, with her little crown on her 
head, and gold spoons for a border — and a frosted 
cake with candles — and a mountain of ice-cream. 
Perhaps you have other memories, but I had to do 
the best I could with my poor little rich boy —” 

It was about this time that Jean’s memory book 
became chaotic. Most of the things in it had to do 
with Derry, a bit of pine from a young plume which 
Derry had sent her from the south — triangles cut 
from the letter paper on which he sometimes wrote 
— post-cards to say “ Good-morning,” telegrams to 
say “ Good-night ”— a service pin with its one 
sacred star. 

There were reminders, too, of the things which 
were happening across the sea, a cartoon or two, a 
small reproduction of a terrible Raemaeker print; 
verse, much of it — 

. . 

“ They have taken your bells, O God, 

The bells that hung in your towers, 

That cried your grace in a lovely song, 

And counted the praying hours! 

349 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


The little birds flew away! 

They will tell the clouds and the wind, 

Till the uttermost places know 
The sin that the Hun has sinned! 

Jean thought a great deal about the Huns. She 
always called them that. She hated to think about 
them, but she had to. She couldn't pin the pages 
together, as it were, of her thoughts. And the 
Huns were worse than the sharks that had fright¬ 
ened her in her little girl days. Oh, they were 
much worse than sharks, for the shark was only 
following an instinct when it killed, and the Huns 
had worked out diabolically their murderous, mon¬ 
strous plan. 

In the days when she had argued with Hilda, she 
had been told of the power and perfection of Prus¬ 
sian rule. “ Everything is at loose ends in Amer¬ 
ica," had been Hilda’s accusation. 

“ Well, what if it is? " Jean had flung back at her 
hotly. “ Having things in place isn’t the end and 
aim of happiness. Just because a house is swept 
and garnished isn't any sign that it is a blissful 
habitation. When I was a child I used to visit my 
two great-aunts in Maryland. I loved to go to 
Aunt Mary's, but I dreaded Aunt Anne's. And 
the reason was this. Everything in Aunt Anne’s 
house went by clock-work, and everything was pol¬ 
ished and scrubbed and dusted within an inch of its 
350 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 


life. When we arrived, we scraped onr shoes before 
we kissed Aunt Anne, and when we departed, we 
felt that she literally swept us out—. We had 
hours for everything, and nobody thought of doing 
as she pleased. It was always as Aunt Anne 
pleased, and the meals were always on time, and 
nobody was ever expected to be late, and if she was 
late she was scolded or punished; and nobody ever 
dared throw a newspaper on the floor, or go out to 
the kitchen and make fudge, or pop corn by the 
sitting-room fire. Yet Aunt Anne was so efficient 
that her house-keeping was the admiration of the 
whole State. 

“ But we loved Aunt Mary’s. She would come 
smiling down the stone walk to meet us, and she 
would leave the morning’s work undone to wander 
with us in the fields or woods. And we had some of 
our meals under the trees, and some of them in the 
house, and when we made taffy, and it stuck to 
things, Aunt Mary smiled some more and said it 
didn’t matter. And we loved the freedom of our 
life, and we went to Aunt Mary’s as often as we 
could, and stayed away when we could from Aunt 
Anne’s. 

“And that’s the way with America. It isn’t 
perfect, it isn’t efficient, but it is a lovely place to 
live in, because in a sense we can live as we please. 

“ Did you ever know a man who wanted to go 
back to slavery? As a slave he was fed and clothed 
351 



THE TIN SOLDIER 


and kept by his master, with no thought of respon¬ 
sibility—. Yet it was freedom he wanted, even 
though he had to go hungry now and then for the 
sake of it —” 

“ I like law and order,” Hilda said. “ We don’t 
always have it here.” 

“ Fd rather be a gipsy on the road,” had been 
Jean’s passionate declaration, “and free, than a 
princess with a 6 verboten ’ sign at all the palace 

gates.” 

There were wisps of gauze, too, in her memory 
book, a red cross, drawings in which were carica¬ 
tured some of the women who worked in the surgi- 
cal dressing rooms. 

“ Emily,” Jean asked, as she showed one of the 
pictures to her friend, “ do such women come be¬ 
cause it’s fashion or because they really feel —? ” 

“ I fancy their motives are mixed,” said Emily, 
“ and you mustn’t think because they wear high 
heels and fluff their hair out over their ears that 
they haven’t any hearts.” 

“ No, I suppose not,” Jean admitted, “ but I won¬ 
der what they think the veils are for when they 
fluff out their hair. 

“ And their rings,” she went on. “ You see, when 
they all have on white aprons and veils you can’t 
tell whether they are Judy O’Grady or the Colonel’s 
lady — so they load their hands with diamonds. 
352 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 


As if the hands wouldn’t tell the tale themselves. 
Why, Emily, if you and Hilda were hidden all but 
your hands, the people would know the Colonel’s 
lady from Judy O’Grady.” 

Emily smiled abstractedly, she was counting 
compresses. She stopped long enough to ask, “ Is 
Hilda still in town? ” 

“ Yes. I saw her yesterday on the other side of 
the street. I didn’t speak, but some day when I 
get a good opportunity I am going to tell her what 
I think of her.” 

But when the opportunity came she did not say 
all that she had meant to say! 

She went over one morning to her father’s house 
to get some papers which he had left in his desk. 
The house had been closed for weeks and the hall, 
as she entered it, was cold with a chill that reached 
the marrow of her bones — it was dim with the 
half-gloom of drawn curtains and closed doors. 
Even the rose-colored drawing-room as she stood 
on the threshold held no radiance — it had the 
stiff and frozen look of a soulless body. Yet she 
remembered how it had throbbed and thrilled on the 
night that Derry had come to her. The golden air 
had washed in waves over her. 

She shivered and went over to the window. She 
pulled up a curtain and looked out upon the gray¬ 
ness of the street. The clouds were low, and a 
strong wind was blowing. Those who passed, bent 

urn 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


to the wind. She was slightly above the level of 
the street, and nobody looked up at her. She might 
have been a ghost in the ghostly house. 

Well, she had to get the papers. She turned to 
face the gloom, and as she turned she heard a 
sound in the room above her. 

It was the rather startling sound of muffled steps. 
She dared not go into the hall. She felt compara¬ 
tively safe by the window —. If — anything came, 
she could open the window and call. 

But she did not call, for it was Hilda who came 
presently on rubber-heels and stood in the door. 

“ I thought I heard some one,” she said, calmly. 

“How did you get in?” w^as Jean’s abrupt de¬ 
mand. 

“ I had my key. I have never given it up.” 

“ But this is no longer your home.” 

“ It was never home,” said Hilda, darkly. “ It 
was never home. I lived here with you and your 
father, but it was never home.” 

Jean, more than ever afraid of this woman, had 
a sudden sense of something tragic in the fact of 
Hilda’s homelessness. 

“ I don’t quite see what you mean,” she said, 
slowly. 

“ You couldn’t see,” Hilda told her, “ and you will 
never see. Women like you don’t.” 

“We — didn’t get on very well together,” Jean 
354 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 

said, almost timidly, “ but that was because we were 
different.” 

“ It wasn r t because we were different that we 
didn’t get on,” Hilda said. “ It was because you 
were afraid of me. You knew your father liked 
me.” 

With her usual frankness she spoke the truth as 
she saw it. 

“ I was not afraid,” Jean faltered. 

“ You were. But we needn’t talk about that. I 
am going to France.” 

“ When?” 

“ As soon as I can get there. That’s why I came 
here. To take away some things I wanted.” 

“ Oh —” 

“ And one of the things I wanted was the picture 
of your father which hung in your room. I have 
taken that. You can get more of them. I can’t. 
So I have taken it.” 

They faced each other, this shining child and this 
dark woman. 

“ But — but it is mine — Hilda.” 

“ It is mine now, and if I were you, I shouldn’t 
make a fuss about it.” 

“ Hilda, how dare you!” Jean began in the old 
indignant way, and stopped. There was something 
so sinister about it all. She hated the thought that 
she and Hilda were alone in the empty house — 
355 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ Hilda, if you go to France, shall you see 
Daddy? ” 

“ I shall try. I had a letter from him the other 
day. He told me not to come. But I am going. 
There is work to do, and I am going .’ 5 

Jean had a stunned feeling, as if there was noth¬ 
ing left to say, as if Hilda were indeed a rock, and 
words would rebound from her hard surface. 

“ But after all, you didn’t really care for 
Daddy —” 

“ What makes you say that? ” 

“ You were going to marry the General.” 

“ Well, I wanted a home. I wanted some of the 
things you had always had. I’m not old, and I am 
tired of being a machine.” 

For just one moment her anger blazed, then she 
laughed with something of toleration. 

“ Oh, you’d never understand if I talked a year. 
So what’s the use of wasting breath ? ” 

She said “ Good-bye ” after that, and Jean 
watched her go, hearing the padded steps — until 
the front door shut and there was silence. 

After that, with almost a sense of panic, she sped 
through the empty rooms, finding the papers after 
a frantic search, and gaining the street with a sense 
of escape. 

Yet even then, it was some time before her heart 
beat normally, and always after that when she 
35ft 


THE EMPTY HOUSE 


thought of Hilda, it was against the chill and gl*>om 
of the empty house, with that look upon her face of 
dark remitmento 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE SINGING WOMAN 

Somewhere in France, Brasilia had found the 
^Captain. Or, rather, he had found her. He had 
come upon her one rainy afternoon, and had not 
recognized her in her muddy uniform, with a strap 
under her chin. Then all at once he had heard her 
voice, crooning a song to a badly wounded boy 
whose head lay in her lap. 

The Captain had stopped in his tracks. “ Bra¬ 
silia —” 

The light in her eyes gave him his welcome, but 
she waved him away. 

The boy died in her arms. When she joined her 
lover, she was much moved. “ It is not my work 
to look after the wounded; I carry blankets and 
things to refugees. But now and then — it hap¬ 
pens. A shell burst in the street, and that poor 
lad— ! He asked me to sing for him — you see, 
I have been singing for them as they go through, 
and he remembered —” 

He was holding both of her hands in his. 
u Bear woman, deal* woman —” There were peo¬ 
ple ^11 about them, but there were no conventions in 
358 


THE SINGING WOMAN 


war times, and nobody cared if he held her hands. 

Her face was dirty, her hair wind-blown. She 
was muddy and without a trace of the smartness 
for which she had been famous. She was simply a 
hard-worked woman in clothes of masculine cut, yet 
never had she seemed so beautiful to her lover. 
He bent and kissed her in the market-place. He 
was an undemonstrative Englishman, but there was 
that in her eyes which carried him away from self- 
consciousness. 

“ I saw McKenzie in Paris/’ he said. “ He told 
me that you were here.” 

“ We came over together. Did you get my let¬ 
ter? ” 

“ I have had no letters. But now that I have 
you, nothing matters.” 

“ Really ? Somehow I don’t feel that I deserve 
it.” 

“ Deserve what? ” 

“ All that you are giving me. But I have liked 
to think of it. It has been a prop to lean on —” 

“ Only that — ?” 

“A shield and a buckler, dearest, a cross held 
high —” Her breath came quickly. 

They sat side by side on the worn doorstep of a 
shattered building and talked. 

“ I am in a shack — a baraque — they call it,” 
Brasilia told him, “with three other women. We 
359 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


have fixed up one room a little better than the 
others, and whenever the men come through the 
town some of them drift in and are warmed by our 
fire, and I sing to them; they call me ‘ The Singing 
Woman .’ 99 

She did not tell him how she had mothered the 
lads. She was not much older than some of them, 
but they had instinctively recognized the maternal 
quality of her interest in them. With all her 
beauty they had turned to her for that which was in 
a sense spiritual. 

Hating the war, Drusilla yet loved the work she 
had to do. There was, of course, the horror of it, 
but there was, too, the stimulus of living in a world 
of realities. She wondered if she were the same 
girl who had burned her red candles and had served 
her little suppers, safe and sound and far away 
from the stress of fighting. 

She wondered, too, if women over there were still 
thinking of their gowns, and men of their gold. 
Were they planning to go North in the summer and 
South in the winter? Were they still care-free and 
comfortable? 

People over here were not comfortable, but how 
llittle they cared, and how splendid they were. She 
had seen since she came such incredibly heroic 
things — men as tender as women, women as brave 
as men — she had seen human nature at its biggest 
and best. 


360 


TEE SINGING WOMAN 


“ I have never been religious/’ she told the Cap¬ 
tain, earnestly; “our family is the kind which 
finds sufficient outlet in a cool intellectual conclu¬ 
sion that all’s right with the world, and it doesn’t 
make much difference what comes hereafter. You 
know the attitude? < If there is future life, we 
shall be glad to explore, and if there isn’t, we shall 
be content to sleep! ’ 

“ But since I have been over here, I have carried 
a little prayer-book, and I’ve read things to the 
men, and when I have come to that part ‘ Gladly to 
die — that we may rise again,’ I have known that 
it is true, Captain —” 

He laid his hand over hers. “ May I have your 
prayer-book in exchange for mine? ” He was very 
serious. With all his heart he loved her, and never 
more than at this moment when she had thrown 
aside all reserves and had let him see her soul. 

She drew the little book from her pocket. It was 
bound in red leather, with a thin black cross on the 
cover. His own was in khaki. 

“ I want something else,” he said, as he held the 
book in his hand. 

“ What?” 

“ This.” He touched a lock of hair which lay 
against her cheek. “ A bit of it — of you —” 

A band of potlus — marching through the street^ 
saw him cut it off. But they did not laugh. They 
had great respect for a thing like that —and it 
361 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 

happened every day — when men went away from 
their women. 

They separated with a promise of perhaps a re¬ 
union in Paris, if he could get leave and if she 
could be spared. Then she drove away through 
the mud in her little car, and he went back to his 
men. 

Thus they were sw T ept apart by that tide of war 
which threatened to submerge the world. 

Drusilla, arriving late at her baraque, made tea, 
and sat by an infinitesimal stove. 

She found herself alone, for the other women 
were away on various errands. She uncovered all 
the glory of her lovely hair, and in her little mirror 
surveyed pensively the ragged lock over her left ear. 

A man like that, oh, a man like that. What more 
could a woman ask —- than love like that? 

Yet even in the midst of her thought of him, came 
the feeling that she was not predestined for happi¬ 
ness. She must go on riding over rough roads on 
her errands of mercy. Nothing must interfere with 
that, not love or matters of personal preference — 
nothing. 

She was very tired. But there was no time for 
rest. A half dozen kilted Highlanders hailed her 
through the open door and asked for a song. She 
gave them “ Wee Hoose Amang the Heather —” 
standing on the step. It was still raining, and 
they took with them a picture of a girl with glori- 
362 


TEE SINGING WOMAN 


©us uncovered hair, and that cut tell-tale lock 
against her cheek. 

Drusilla watching them go, wondered if she 
would ever see them again, with their pert caps, 
the bare knees of them — the strong swing of their 
bodies. 

She stretched her arms above her head. “ Oh, 
oh, I’m tired —” 

She went in and poured another cup of tea. She 
left the door open. Indeed it always stood open 
that the room might shine its welcome. 

Snatching forty winks, she waked to find a 
woman standing over her — a tall woman in a blue 
cloak and bonnet, who held in her hand a dripping 
umbrella. ^ 

She felt that she still dreamed. “ It can’t be 
Hilda Merritt? ” 

“ Yes, it is.” Hilda set the umbrella in the wood 
box. “ I knew you were here.” 

“ Who told you? ” 

“ Dr. McKenzie.” 

“ Oh, you are with him, then? ” 

“ He won’t have me. That’s why I came to you.” 

“To me?” 

u Yes. I want you to tell him not to — turn me 
away.” 

Drusilla showed her bewilderment. “ But, surely 
nothing that 1 could say would have more weight 
with him than your own arguments.” 

363 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“You are Ms kind. He’d listen. TMngs that 
you say count with him.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean.” 

“ Well, I’ve offended him. And he won’t forgive 
me. Not even for the sake of the work. And I’m 
a good nurse, Miss Gray. But he’s as hard as nails. 
And — and he sent me away.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Drusilla said gently. Hilda 
was a dark figure of tragedy, as she sat there 
statuesquely in her blue cloak. 

“ You could make him see how foolish it is to re¬ 
fuse to have a good worker; men may die whom I 
could save. He thinks that — those things don’t 
mean anything to me, that I am arguing from a per¬ 
sonal standpoint. He wouldn’t think that of you.” 

“ I’ll do what I can, of course,” Drusilla said 
slowly. She was not sure that she wanted to get 
into it, but she was sorry for Hilda. 

“ Won’t you have a cup of tea,” she said im¬ 
pulsively, “and take off your cloak? I am afraid 
I haven’t seemed a bit hospitable. I was so sur¬ 
prised.” 

Hilda gave a little laugh. “ I'm not used to such 
courtesies — so I didn’t miss it. But I should like 
the tea, and something to eat with it. I left Dr. 
McKenzie’s hospital early this morning, and I 
haven’t eaten since — I didn’t want anything to 
eat —” 

She watched Drusilla curiously as she set forth 
364 


THE SINGING WOMAN 


the food. “ It must seem strange to you to live in 
a room like this.” 

“ I like it.” 

“But you have always had such an easy life, 
Miss Gray.” 

Drusilla smiled. “ It may have looked easy to 
you. But I give you my word that keeping up with 
the social game is harder than this.” 

. “ You say that,” Hilda told her crisply, “ not 
because it’s true, but because it sounds true. Do 
you mean to tell me that you like to be muddy and 
dirty and live in a place like this? ” 

“ Yes, I like it.” Something flamed in the back 
of Drusilla’s eyes. “ I like it because it means 
something, and the other didn’t.” 

“Well, I don’t like it,” Hilda stated. “But 
nursing is all I am fit for. I came over with a lot 
of other nurses, and they tell me at the hospital I 
am the best of the lot — and in war times you can’t 
afford to miss the experience. But then I am used 
to a hard life, and you are not.” 

“ Neither are the men in the trenches used to it. 
That’s the standard I apply to myself — for every 
hard thing I am doing, it is ten times harder for 
them. I wish all the people at home could see how 
wonderful they are.” 

“That’s Jean McKenzie’s word — wonderful. 
Everything was wonderful, and now she has mar* 
tied Derry Drake.” 


365 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“Yes, she has married Derry,” Drusilla stood 
staring into the little round stove. 

She roused herself presently. “ I call them Babes 
in the Wood. They seem so young, and yet Derry 
isn’t really young — it is only that there’s such a 
radiant air about him.” 

Hilda’s bitterness broke forth. “ Why shouldn’t 
he be radiant? Life has given him everything. It 
has given her everything; in a way it has given you 
everything. I am the one who goes without — it 
looks as if I should alw r ays go without the things I 
w r ant.” 

“ Don’t think that,” Drusilla said in her pleasant 
fashion. “ Nobody is set apart — and some day 
you will see it. Did you know that Derry may be 
over now at any time, and that Jean is to stay with 
the General? ” 

“Yes,” Hilda moved restlessly. There came to 
her a vision of the big house, of the shadowed room, 
of the room beyond, and of herself in a tiara, with 
ermine on her cloak. 

What a dream it had been, and she had waked to 
this! 

She rose. “If Dr. McKenzie doesn’t take me 
back he may be sorry. Will you write to him? ” 

“ I shall see him Saturday — in Paris. I have 
promised to dine with him. Captain Hewes is com¬ 
ing, too, if he can.” 

Hilda, going away in the rain, dwelt moodily on 
366 


TEE SINGING WOMAN 


Brasilia’s opportunities. If only she, too, might 
dine in Paris with men like Dr. McKenzie and Cap¬ 
tain Hewes. There were indeed, men who might 
ask her to dine with them, but not as Drusilla had 
been asked, as an equal and as a friend. 

The way was long, the road was muddy. There 
was not much to look towards at the end. It was 
not that she minded the dreadfulness of sights and 
sounds — she had been too much in hospitals for 
that. But she hated the ugliness, the roughness, the 
grinding toil. 

Yet had she been with Dr. McKenzie, she would 
have toiled gladly for him. There would have been 
the sight of his crinkled copper head, the sound of 
his voice, his teasing laugh to sustain her. And 
now it was Brasilia who would see him, who would 
sit with him at the table, who would tempt his teas* 
ing laugh. 

Well — if he didn’t take her back, he would be 
sorry. There had been a patient in the hospital 
who in his delirium had whispered things. When 
he had come to himself, she had told him calmly, 
“ You are a spy.” He had not whitened, but had 
measured her with a glance. “ Help me, and you 
shall see the Emperor. There will be nothing too 
good for you.” 

Drusilla, after Hilda’s departure, sat by he? little 
stove and thought it over. She divined something 
which did not appear on the surface. She was glad 
367 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


that she had promised to plead Hilda’s cause. The 
woman's face haunted her. 

And now the other workers who shared Drusilla’s 
shack returned, bringing news of many wounded 
and on the way. Then came the darkness of the 
night, the long line of ambulances, the ghastly pro¬ 
cession that trailed behind. 

And all through the night Drusilla sang to men 
who rested for a moment on their weary way, out 
of the shadows came eager voices asking for this 
song and that — then they would pass on, and she 
would throw herself down for a little sleep, to rouse 
again and lift her voice, while the other women 
poured the coffee. 

She was hoarse in the morning, and white with 
fatigue, but when one of the women said, “ You 
can’t keep this up, Drusilla, you can’t stand it,” she 
smiled. “ They stand it in the trenches, and some 
of them are so tired.” 

She w r as as fresh as paint, however, on Saturday, 
when she met Dr. McKenzie in Paris. “ I have had 
two hot baths, and all my clothes are starched and 
ironed and fluted by an adorable Frenchwoman who 
opened her house for me,” she announced as she sat 
down with him at a corner table. “ I never wore 
fluted things before, but you can’t imagine how 
civilizing it is after you’ve been letting yourself 
down. 


368 


TEE SINGING WOMAN 


The Doctor was tired, and he looked it. “ No one 
has starched and fluted me.” 

“ Poor man. I’m glad you ran away from it all 
for a minute with me. Captain Hewes thought he 
might be able to come. But I haven’t heard from 
him, have you? ” 

“ No. But he may blow in at any moment. It 
seems queer, doesn’t it, Drusilla, that you and I 
should be over here with all the rest of them left 
behind.” 

She hesitated, then brought it out without pre¬ 
lude. “ Hilda came to see me.” 

“ To see you? Why? ” 

“ She is broken-hearted because you won’t let her 
work with you.” 

“1 told her I could not. And she hasn’t any 
heart to break.” 

“ I wonder if you’d mind,” Drusilla ventured^ 
u telling me what’s the matter.” 

“ A rather squalid story,” but he told it. “ She 
wanted to marry the General.” 

“ Poor thing.” 

He glanced at her in surprise. “ Then you de¬ 
fend her? ” 

“ Oh, no — no. But think of having to marry to 
get the — the fleshpots, and to miss all of the real 
meanings. I talked to Hilda for a long time, and 
somehow before she left she made me feel sorry. 

369 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


She wants so much that she will never have. And 
she will grow hard and bitter because life isn't giv¬ 
ing her all that she demands." 

“ Did she ask you to plead her cause? " 
u Yes," frankly. “ She feels that you ought to 
give her another chance." 

He ran his fingers through his crinkled hair. “ I 
don’t want her. I’m afraid of her." 

“ Afraid? " 

“ She sees the worst that is in me, and brings it 
to the surface. And when I protest, she laughs and 
insists that I don’t know myself. That I am a sort 
of Dr. Jekyll, with the Mr. Hyde part of me 
asleep —" 

“ And you let her scare you like that? " 

He nodded. “ Every man has a weak spot, and 
mine is wanting the world to think well of me." 

“ Think well of yourself. What would Jean say 
if she heard you talking like this? " 

“ Jean? " she was startled by the breaking up of 
his face into deep lines of trouble. “ Do you know 
what she is doing, Drusilla? She is staying in that 
great old house playing daughter to the General." 

“ Marion says the General’s affection for her is 
touching — he doesn’t want her out of his sight." 

“ And because he doesn’t want her out of his sight, 
she must stay a prisoner. I say that he hasn’t done 
anything to deserve such devotion, Drusilla. He 
hasn’t done anything to deserve it." 

370 


THE SINGING WOMAN 


4i Yon are jealous.” 

“ No. It isn’t that. Though I’ll confess that 
something pulls at my heart when I think of it —. 
But I want her to be happy.” 

“ I think she is happy. Life is giving her the 
hard things — but you and I would not be without 
the — hard things; we have reached out our hands 
for them, because the world needs us. Are you go¬ 
ing to deny your daughter that? ” 

“ Oh, I suppose not. But I hate it. Women 
ought to be happy — care-free, not shut up in sick 
rooms or running around in the rain.” 

“ Oh, you men, how little you know what makes 
a woman happy.” She stopped, and half rose from 
her chair. “ Captain Hewes is coming.” 

“ I don’t know that I am glad, Brasilia,” the Doc¬ 
tor turned to survey the beaming officer, “ for now 
you won’t have eyes or ears for me.” 

But she was glad. 

While the Captain held her hand in his as if he 
would never let her go, she told him about being 
fluted and starched. “ I don’t look as dishevelled 
as I did the other day.” 

“ You looked beautiful the other day,” he assured 
her with fervor, “ but this is better, because you are 
rested and some of the sadness has gone out of your 
eyes.” 

Dr. McKenzie watched them enviously, “ I real¬ 
ize,” he reminded them, u that I am the fifth wheel, 
371 


THE ,IN SOLDIER 


or any other superfluous thing, hut you can’t get rid 
of me. I am homesick — somebody’s got to cheer 
me up.” 

“ We don’t want to get rid of you,” Drusilla told 
him, smiling. 

But he knew that her loveliness was all for the 
Captain. She was lighted up by the presence of 
her betrothed, made exquisite, softer, more 
womanly. Love had come slowly to Drusilla, but it 
had come at last. 

When the Doctor left them, he was in a daze of 
loneliness. He wanted Jean, he wanted sympathy, 
understanding, good-comradeship. 

For just one little moment temptation assailed 
him. There was of course, Hilda. She would 
bring with her the atmosphere of familiar things 
which he craved. There would be the easy give and 
take of speech which was such a relief after his pro¬ 
fessional manner, there would be his own teasing 
sense of how much she wanted, and of how little he 
had to give. There would be, too, the stimulus to 
his vanity. 

A broken-hearted Hilda, Drusilla had said. 
There was something provocative in the situation — 
elements of drama. Why not? 

He thought about it that night when once more 
back at his work he and his head nurse discussed a 
case of shell shock — a pitiful case of fear, loss of 
memory, complete prostration. 

372 


THE SINGING WOMAN 


The nurse was a plain little thing, very compe¬ 
tent, very quiet She was, perhaps, no more com¬ 
petent than Hilda in the mechanics of her profes¬ 
sion, but she had qualities which Hilda lacked. 
She was not very young, and there were younger 
nurses under her. Yet in spite of her plainness and 
quietness, she wielded an influence which was re¬ 
markable. The whole hospital force was feeling 
the effect of that influence. It was as if every 
nurse had in some rather high and special way 
dedicated herself — as nuns might to the con¬ 
ventual life, or sisters of charity to the service of 
the poor. There was indeed a heroic aspect to it, a 
spiritual aspect, and this plain little woman was 
setting the pace. 

And Hilda, coming in, would spoil it all. Oh, he 
knew how she would spoil it. With her mocking 
laugh, her warped judgments, her skeptical point of 
view. 

No, he did not want Hilda. The best in him did 
not want her, and please God, he was giving his best 
to this cause. However he might fail in other 
things, he would not fail in his high duty towards 
the men who came out of battle shattered and 
broken, holding up their hands to him for help. 

“ I am going to let Miss Shelby have the case,” 
the plain little nurse was saying, “ when he begins 
to come back. She will give him what he needs. 
She is so strong and young, so sure of the eternal 
373 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

rightness of things — and she’s got to make him 
sure.” 

The Doctor nodded. “ Some of us are not 
sure —” 

She agreed gravely. “ But we are learning to be 
sure, aren’t we, over here? Don’t you feel that all 
the things you have ever done are little compared 
to this? That men and women are better and big¬ 
ger than you have believed? ” 

“ If anyone could make me feel it,” he said, “ it 
would be you.” 

When she had gone, he wrote letters. 

He wrote to Jean — he wrote every day to Jean. 

He wrote to Hilda. 

“ You are splendidly fitted for just the thing that 
you are doing. Men come and go and you care for 
their wounds. But we have to care here for more 
than men’s bodies, we care for their minds and 
souls — we piece them together, as it were. And 
we need women who believe that God’s in his 
Heaven. And you don’t believe it. Hilda. I 
fancy that you see in every man his particular 
devil, and like to lure it out for him to look at —” 

He stopped there. He could see her reading what 
he had written. She would laugh a little, and write 
back: 

“ Are you any better than I? If I am too black 
to herd with the white sheep, what of you; aren’t 
you tarred with the same brush—? ” 

374 


THE SINGING WOMAN 


He tore up the letter and sent a brief note. Why 
explain what he was feeling to Hilda? She was of 
those who would never know nor understand. 

And he felt the need tonight of understanding — 
of sympathy. 

And so he wrote to Emily. 


CHAPTER XXV 


white’ violets 

Bruce McKenzie’s letter arriving in due time at 
the Toy Shop, found Emily very busy. There were 
many women to be instructed how to do things with 
gauze and muslin and cotton, so she tucked the let¬ 
ter in her apron pocket. But all day her mind 
went to it, as a feast to be deferred until the time 
came to enjoy it. 

In the afternoon Ulrich Stolle arrived, bearing 
the inevitable tissue paper parcel. 

“ Do you know what day it is? ” he asked. 

“ Thursday.” 

“ There are always Thursdays. But this is a spe¬ 
cial Thursday.” 

“ Is it?” 

“And you ask me like that? It is a Thursday 
for valentines.” 

“ Of course. But how could you expect me to 
remember? Nobody ever sends me valentines.” 

“ My father has sent you one.” It was a heart- 
shaped basket of pink roses; “ but mine I couldn’t 
bring. You must come and see it. Will you dine 
with us tonight? ” 


376 


WHITE VIOLETS 

“ Oh, I am so busy.” 

“ You are not too busy for that. Let your little 
Jean take charge.” 

Jean, all in white with her white veil and red 
crosses was more than ever like a little nun. She 
was remote, too, like a nun, wrapped not in the con¬ 
templation of her religion, but of her love. 

She still made toys, and the proceeds of the sale 
of Lovely Dreams had been contributed by herself 
and Emily for Red Cross purposes. There were 
rows and rows of the fantastic creatures behind 
glass doors on the shelves, and for Valentine’s Day 
Jean had carved and painted pale doves which car¬ 
ried in their beaks rosy hearts and golden arrows 
and whose wings were outspread —. 

There were also on the shelves the white plush 
elephants which Franz Stolle and his friends had 
made, and which were, too, being sold to swell the 
Red Cross fund. 

Thus had the Toy Shop come into its own. “ I 
have enough to live on,” Emily had said, “ at least 
for a while, and I am taking no more chances for 
future living, than the men who give up everything 
to fight.” 

So enlisted in this cause of mercy as men had en¬ 
listed in the cause of war, Miss Emily led where 
others followed, and the old patriarch of all the 
white elephants, who had been born in a country 
of blood and iron, looked down on women working 
377 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


to heal the wounds which his country had mada 

“Let your little Jean look after things,” Ulrich 
repeated. 

“ Do you mind, my dear? ” 

“ Mind what, Emily — ? ” 

“ If I go with Mr. Stolle — to see his father about 
the — toys.” 

“Darling — no;” Jean kissed her. “I don't 
mind in the least, and the ride will do you good.” 

“ But you are not going to see my father about 
toys,” Ulrich told her, twinkling, as he followed 
her to the back of the shop. 

“Do you think I was going to tell her that? * 

She put on her coat and hat and off she went with 
Ulrich, leaving still unread in the pocket of the big 
apron the letter which Bruce McKenzie had written 
her. 

All the way out Ulrich was rather silent. It was 
not, however, the silence of moodiness or dullness, 
it was rather as if he wanted to hear her speak. It 
was, indeed, a responsive, stimulating silence, and 
she glowed under his glance. 

It seemed to her, as she talked, that these adven¬ 
tures with Ulrich Stolle were in every way the most 
splendid thing that had happened to her. They 
were always unexpected, and they were packed to 
the brim with pleasure of a rare quality. 

When they reached their destination, Ulrich took 
her at once to the hothouses. As they passed down 
378 


WHITE VIOLETS 


the fragrant aisles, she found that all the men had 
gone, their day's work oyer; only she and Ulrich 
were under the great glass roof. 

“ Anton comes back later/ 7 Ulrich explained, 
“ but at this hour the houses are empty, and dinner 
will not be ready for an hour. We have it all to 
ourselves, Emily. 77 

Her name, spoken with so much ease, without a 
sign of self-consciousness, startled her. Her in¬ 
quiring glance showed her that he was utterly un¬ 
aware that he had spoken it. Her breath came 
quickly. 

The birds sang and the stream sang, and suddenly 
her heart began to sing. 

You see it had been so many years since Emily 
had known romance;— indeed, she had never known 
it — there had always been, in her mother’s time, 
her sense of the proper thing, and her sense of duty, 
and her sense of making the best of things — and 
now for the first time in her life there was no 
make-believe. This was a world of realities, with 
Ulrich leading the way, his hands gathering flowers 
for her. 

He stopped at last at the entrance of a sort of 
grotto where great ferns towered — at their feet was 
a bed of white violets. 

“ You see, 77 he said, “ I could not bring it. I 
came here this morning to pick the violets ~~ for you 
— to let them say, ‘ I love you 7 — 77 
379 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

Even the birds seemed silent, and the little 
stream! 

“ And suddenly they spoke to me, 6 Let her see 
us here, where you have so often thought of her. 
Tell her here that you love her —’ 

“ How much I love you,” and now she found her 
hands in his, “ I cannot tell you. It seems to me 
that the thought of you as my wife is so exquisite 
that I cannot believe it will ever come to pass. 
And I have so little to offer you. Even my name is 
hated because it is a German name, and my old 
house is German, and my father — 

“ But my heart's blood is for America. You 
know that, and so I have dared to ask it, not that 
you will love me now, but that you may come to 
think of loving me, so that some day you will care 
a little.” 

The birds were singing madly, the streams were 
shouting — Emily was trembling. Nobody had 
ever wanted her like this — nobody had ever made 
her feel so young and lovely and — wanted —. She 
had had a proposal or two, but there had been al¬ 
ways the sense that she had been chosen for certain 
staid and sensible qualities; there had been nothing 
in it of red blood and rapture. 

“ If you should come to us, to me and my father, 
you would be a queen on a throne. If you could 
love me just a little in return —” 

She could not answer, she just stood looking up 
380 


WHITE VIOLETS 


m> Mm, and suddenly liis arms went around her, 
“ Tell me, beloved.” 


An hour later they went in to his father, and 
after that Emily was lifted up on the wings of an 
enthusiasm which left her breathless, but beatified. 
“ I knew when 1 first saw you what we desired,” 
said the old man, “ and my son knew. All that I 
have is yours both now and afterwards —” 

Dinner was a candle-lighted feast, with heart- 
shaped ices at the end. 

“ How sure you were,” Emily told her lover, 
smiling. 

“ I was not sure. But I set the stage for suc¬ 
cess. It was only thus that I kept up my courage. 
There were so many chances that the curtain might 
drop on darkness—,” his hand went over hers. 
“ If it had been that way, I should have let the ices 
melt and the violets die —.” 

After dinner they went over the house. “ Why 
should we wait,” Ulrich had said, “you and I? 
There is nothing to wait for. Tell me what you 
want changed in this old house, and then come to it, 
and to my heart.” 

It was, she found, such a funny old place. It had 
been furnished by men, and by German men at that. 
There w T as heaviness and stuffiness, and all the bric- 
a-brac was fat and puffy, and all the pictures were 
381 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


highly-colored, with the women in them blonde and 
buxom, and the men blond and bold —. 

But Ulrich’s room was not stuffy or heavy. The 
windows were wide open, and the walls were white, 
and the cover on the canopy bed was white, and 
there were two pictures, one of Lincoln and one of 
Washington, and that was all. 

“ And when I have your picture, it will be per¬ 
fect,” he told her. “ Where I can see you when I 
wake, and pray to you before I go to sleep.” 

“ But why,” she probed daringly, “ do you want 
my picture? ” 

“ Because you are so — beautiful —•” 

It was not to be wondered that such worship 
went to Miss Emily’s head. She slipped out of the 
dried sheath of the years which had saddened and 
aged her, and emerged lovely as a flower over which 
the winter has passed and which blooms again. 

“ I don’t want to change anything,” Emily told 
her lover as they went downstairs, “ at least not 
very much. I shall keep all of the lovely old carved 
things —- with the fat cupids.” 

As she lay awake that night, reviewing it all, she 
thought suddenly of Bruce McKenzie’s letter in her 
apron pocket. The apron was in the Toy Shop, and 
it was not therefore until the next morning that she 
read the letter. 

In it Dr. McKenzie asked her to marry him. 

u I should like to think that when I come back* 
382 


WHITE VIOLETS 


yon will be waiting for me, Emily. I am a vet$ 
lonely man. I want someone who will sympathize 
and understand. I want someone who will love 
Jean, and who will hold me to the best that is in 
me, and you can do that, Emily; you have always 
done it.” 

It was a rather touching letter, and she felt its 
appeal strongly. Indeed, so stern was her sense of 
self-sacrifice, that she had an almost guilty feeling 
when she thought of Ulrich. If he had not come 
into her life at the psychological moment, she might 
have given herself to Bruce McKenzie. 

But the letter had come too late. Oh, how glad 
she was that she had left it in her apron pocket! 

She answered it that night. 

“ I am going to be very frank with you, Bruce, 
because in being frank with you I shall be frank 
with myself. If Ulrich Stoile had not come into 
my life, I should probably have thought I cared foi 
you. Even now when I am saying 4 no,’ I realize 
that your charm has always held me, and that the 
prospect of a future by your pleasant fireside holds 
many attractions. But since you left Washington, 
something has happened which I never expected, 
and all of my preconceived ideas of myself have 
been overturned. Bruce, I am no longer the Emily 
you have known — a little staid, gray-haired, with 
pretty hands, but with nothing else very pretty 
about her; a lady who would, perhaps, fill grace¬ 
fully, a position for which her aristocratic nose fits 
her. I am no longer the Emily of the Toy Shop, 
383 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


wearing spectacles on a black ribbon, eating her 
lunches wherever she can get them. No, I am an 
Emily who is young and beautiful, a sort of fairy¬ 
tale Princess, an Emily who, if she wishes, shall sit 
on a cushion and sew a fine seam, but who doesn’t 
wish it because she hates to sew, and would much 
rather work in her silver-bell-and-cockle shell gar¬ 
den — oh, such a wonderful garden as it is! 

“And I am all this, Bruce, I am young and beauti¬ 
ful and all the rest, because I am seeing myself 
through the eyes of my lover. 

“He is Ulrich Stolle, as I have said, and you 
mustn’t think because his name is German that he 
is to be east into outer darkness. He is as Ameri¬ 
can as you with your Scotch blood, or as I with my 
English blood. And he is as loyal as any of us. 
He is too old to be accepted for service, but he is 
giving time and money to the cause. 

“ And he loves me rapturously, radiantly, roman¬ 
tically. He doesn’t want me as a cushion for his 
tired head, he doesn’t want me because he thinks it 
would be an act of altruism to provide a haven for 
me in my old age, he wants me because he thinks I 
am the most remarkable woman in the whole wide 
world, and that he is the most fortunate man to 
have won me. 

“And you don’t feel that way about it, Bruce. 
You know that I am not beautiful, there is no glam¬ 
our in your love for me. You know that I am not 
wonderful, or a fairy Princess—. And you are 
right and he is wrong. But it is his wrongness 
which makes me love him. Because every woman 
wants to be beautiful to her lover, and to feel that 
she is much desired. 


384 


WHITE VIOLETS 


“You will ask why I am telling you all this. 
Well, there was one sentence in your letter which 
called it forth. You say that you want me because 
I will hold you to the best that is in you. 

“Oh, Bruce, what would you gain if I held you? 
Wouldn’t there be moments when in spite of me 
you would swing back to women like Hilda? You 
are big and fine, but you are spoiled by feminine 
worship — it is a temptation which assails clergy¬ 
men and doctors — who have, as it were, many 
women at their feet. 

“Does that sound harsh? I don’t mean it that 
way. I only want you to come into your own. 
And if you ever marry I want you to find some 
woman whom you can love as you loved your wife, 
someone who will touch your imagination, set you 
on fire with dreams, and I could never do it. 

“ Yet even as I finish this letter, I am tempted 
to tear it up and tell you only of my real apprecia¬ 
tion of the honor you have conferred upon me in 
asking me to be your wife. I know that you are 
olfering me more in many ways than Urich Sfeblle. 
I don’t like his name, because something rises up 
in me against Teuton blood and Teuton nomencla¬ 
ture. But he loves me, and you do not, and be¬ 
cause of his love for me and mine for him, every¬ 
thing else seems too small to consider. 

“ Oh, you’d laugh at his house, Bruce, but I love 
even the fat angels that are carved on everything 
from the mahogany chests to the soup tureens, it 
is all like some old fairy-tale. I shall make few 
changes; it seems such a perfect setting for Ulrich 
and his busy old gnome of a father. 

“ When you get this, pray for my happiness. Oh, 
I do want to be happv. I have made the best of 
* 385 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


things, but there has been much more of gray than 
rose-color, and now as I turn my face to the setting 
sun, I am seeing — loveliness and light —” 

She read it over and sealed it and sent it away. 
It was several weeks before it reached Doctor Mc¬ 
Kenzie. He was very busy, for the spring drive of 
the Germans had begun, and shattered men were 
coming to him faster than he could handle them. 
But he found time at last to read it, and when he 
laid it down he sat quite still from the shock of it. 

And the next time he saw Drusilla he said to her, 
“ Emily Bridges is going to be married, and she is 
not going to marry me.” 

“ I am glad of it,” Drusilla told him. 

“ My dear girl, why? ” 

“ Because yon don’t love her, and you never did.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE HOPE OF THE WORLD 

The great spring drive of the Germans brought 
headlines to the papers which men and women in 
America read with dread, and scoffed at when they 
talked it over. 

“ They’ll never get to Paris,” were the words on 
their lips, but in their hearts they were asking, 
“ Will they — ? ” 

Easter came at the end of March, and Good Fri¬ 
day found Jean working very early in the morning 
on fawn-colored rabbits with yellow ears. She 
worked in her bedroom because it was warmed by 
a feeble wood fire, and Teddy came up to watch her. 

“ The yellow in their ears is the sun shining 
through,” Jean told him. “ We used to see them 
in the country on the path in front of the house, 
and the light from the west made their ears look 
like tiny electric bulbs.” 

Margaret-Mary entranced by one small bunny 
with a splash of white for a cotton tail, sang, 
“ Pitty sing, pitty sing.” 

“ They don’t weally lay eggs, do they?” Teddy 
ventured. 


887 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


si I wouldn’t ask suck questions if I were you, 
Teddy.” 

“ Why not? ” 

“ Because you might find out that they didn’t lay 
eggs, and then you’d feel terribly disappointed.” 

“ Well, isn’t it better to know? ” 

Jean shook her head. “ I’m not sure — it’s nice 
to think that they do lay eggs — blue ones and red 
ones and those lovely purple ones, isn't it? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And if they don’t lay them, who does? ” 

“ Hens,” said Teddy, rather unexpectedly, “ and 
the rab-yits steal them.” 

“ Who told you that? ” 

“ Hodgson. And she says that she ties them up 
in rags and the colors come olf on the eggs.” 

“ Well, I wouldn’t listen to Hodgson.” 

“ Why not? I like to listen.” 

“ Because she hasn’t any imagination.” 

“ What’s ’magination ? ” 

They were getting in very deep. Jean gave it up. 
“ Ask your mother, Teddy.” 

So Teddy sought his unfailing source of informa¬ 
tion. “ What’s ’magination, Mother.” 

“ It is seeing things, Teddy, with your mind in¬ 
stead of your eyes. When I tell you about the poor 
little children in France who haven’t any food or 
any clothes except what the Red Cross gives them, 
388 


THE HOPE OF THE WORLD 


you don’t really see them with your eyes, hut your 
mind sees them, and their cold little hands, and 
their sad little faces —” 

“ Yes.” He considered that for a while, then 
swept on to the things over which his childish brain 
puzzled. 

“ Mother, if the Germans get to Paris what will 
happen?” 

He saw the horror in her face. 

“ Do you hate the Germans, Mother? ” 

“ My darling, don’t ask me.” 

After he had gone downstairs, Margaret got out 
her prayer-book, and read the prayers for the day. 

“ Oh, merciful God, who hast made all men and 
hatest nothing that thou hast made, nor desirest 
the death of a sinner, but rather that he should be 
converted and live, have mercy on all Jews, Turks, 
infidels and heretics, and take from them all ig¬ 
norance, hardness of heart, and contempt of Thy 
word, and so fetch them home, blessed Lord, to Thy 
flock, that they may be saved —” 

She shut the book. No, she could not go on. 
She did not love her enemies. She was not in the 
least sure that she wanted the Germans to be saved l 

On Easter morning, however, Teddy was in¬ 
structed to pray for his enemies. “We mustn’t 
have hate in our hearts.” 

“ Why mustn’t we, Mother? ” 

389 



THE TIN SOLDIER 


a Well, Father wouldn’t want it. We hate the 
eyil they do, but we must pray that they wall be 
shown their wickedness and repent.” 

“ If they re-pyent will they stop fighting? ” 

“ My dearest, yes.” 

“ How would they stop ? 99 

Jean, wiio was ready for church and waiting, 
warned, “ You’d better not try to give an answ T er to 
that, Margaret, there isn’t any.” 

Teddy ignored her. “ How w 7 ould they stop, 
Mother? ” 

“ Well, they’d just stop, dear—” 

“ Would they say they were sorry? 

Would William of Prussia ever be sorry? 

“ Can God stop it, Mother? ” 

Margaret wenched her mind away from the pic¬ 
ture which his w ords had painted for her, the Kaiser 
on his knees! Miserere mei, Deus — 

With quick breath, “ Yes, dear.” 

“ Then w T hy doesn’t He stop it, Mother? ” 

Why? Why? Why? Older voices were ashing 
that question in agony . 

“ He will do it in His own good time, dearest. 
Perhaps the world has a lesson to learn.” 

With Teddy walking ahead with nurse, Jean pro¬ 
claimed to Margaret, “ I shan’t pray for them.” 

“ I know how r you feel.” 

“ Shall you?” 

“ Yes,” desperately, “ I must.” 

390 


THE HOPE OF THE WORLD 


“ Why must you? ” 

“ Because of — Win/’ Margaret said simply. In 
her widow’s black, with her veil giving her height 
and dignity, she had never been more beautiful. 
“ Because of Win, I must. There are wives in Ger¬ 
many who suffer as I suffer — who are not to blame. 
There are children, like my children, asking the 
same questions—. This drive has seemed to me 
like the slaughter of sheep, with a great Wolf be¬ 
hind them, a Wolf without mercy, sending them 
down to destruction, to — death —” 

“ And the Wolf — ?” 

Margaret raised her hand and let it drop, “ God 
knows.” 

And now soldiers were being rushed overseas. 
Trains swept across the land loaded with men who 
gazed wistfully at the peaceful towns as they passed 
through, or chafed impotently when, imprisoned in 
day coaches, they were side-tracked outside of great 
cities. 

And on the battle line those droves and droves of 
gray sheep were driven down and down — to death 
— by the Wolf. 

The war was coming closer to America. A look 
of care settled on the faces of men and women who 
had, hitherto, taken things lightly. Fathers, who 
had been very sure that the war would end before 
their sons should go to France, faced the fact that 
the end was not in sight, and that the war would 
391 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


take its toll of tlie youth of America. Mothers, who 
had not been sure of anything, but had hidden their 
fears in their hearts, stopped reading the daily 
papers. Wives, who had looked upon the camp ex¬ 
periences of their husbands as a rather great ad¬ 
venture, knew now that there might be a greater 
adventure with a Dark Angel. The train-sheds in 
great cities were crowded with anxious relatives 
who watched the troops go through, clutching at the 
hope of a last glimpse of a beloved face, a few 
precious moments in which to say farewell. 

Yes, the war was coming near! 

Derry wrote that he might go at any moment, but 
hoped for a short furlough. It was on this hope 
that Jean lived. She worked tirelessly, making 
the much-needed surgical dressings. When Emily 
tried to get her to rest, Jean would shake her head. 

“ Darling, I must. They are bringing the 
wounded over.” 

“ But you mustn’t get too tired.” 

“ I want to be tired. So that I can sleep.” 

She was finding it hard to sleep. Often she rose 
and wrote in her memory book, which was becoming 
in a sense a diary because she confided to its pages 
the things she dared not say to Derry. Some day, 
perhaps, she might show him what she had written. 
But that would be when the war was over, and 
Derry had come back safe and sound. Until then 
392 


THE HOPE OF THE WORLD 


she would have to smile in her letters, and she did 
not always feel like smiling! 

But that was what Derry called them, “ Smiling 
letters! ” 

“ They smile up at me every morning, Jean.” 

So she wrote to him bravely, cheerfully, of her 
busy days, of how she missed him, of her love and 
longing, but not a word did she say of her world as 
it really was. 

But there was no laughter in the things she said 
to the old memory book. 

“ I don’t like big houses — not houses like this, 
with grinning porcelain Chinese gods at every turn 
of the hall, and gold dragons on the bed-posts. 
There are six of us here besides the servants, yet 
we are like dwarfs in a giant palace. Perhaps if 
we had the usual fires it wouldn’t seem quite so 
forlorn. But the china in the cabinets is sc cold —- 
and the ceilings are so high — and the marble 
floors —. 

“ Perhaps if everyone were happy it would be dif¬ 
ferent, But only Emily is happy. And I don’t see 
how she can be. She is going to marry a Hun! 
Of course, he isn’t really, and he’d be a darling dear 
if it weren’t for his German name, and his German 
blood, and the German things he has in his house. 
But Emily says she loves his house, that it speaks 
to her of a different Germany — of the sweet old 
393 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


gay Germany that waltzed and sang and loved 
simple things. It seems so funny to think of Emily 
in love — she’s so much older than people are usu¬ 
ally when they are engaged and married. 

“ But Emily is the only happy one, except the 
children, and I sometimes think that even they have 
the shadow on them of the dreadful things that 
are happening. Margaret-Mary tries to knit, and 
tires her stubby little fingers with the big needles, 
and Teddy, poor chap, seems to feel that he must be 
the man of the family and take his father’s place, 
and he is pathetically careful of his mother. 

“ I wonder if Margaret feels as I do about it all? 
She is so sweet and smiling — and yet I know how 
her heart weeps, and I know how she longs for her 
own house and her own hearth and her own hus¬ 
band— 

“ Oh, when my Derry comes back safe and sound 
— and he will come back safe, I shall say it over 
and over to myself until I make it true — when 
Derry comes back, we’ll build a cottage, with win¬ 
dows that look out on trees and a garden —and 
there’ll be cozy little rooms, and we’ll take Polly 
Ann and Muffin — and live happy ever after —. 

“ I wonder how father stands it to be always with 
people who are sick? I never knew what it meant 
until now. The General is an old dear — but some¬ 
times when I sit in that queer room of his with its 
lacquer and gold and see him in his gorgeous dress- 
394 


THE HOPE OF THE WORLD 


ing gown, I feel afraid. It is rather dreadful 
think that he was once young and strong like Derry, 
and that he will never be young and strong again. 

“ Oh, I want the war to end — I want Derry, and 
sunshine and well people. It seems a hundred 
years since I did anything just for the fun of doing 
it. It seems a million years since Daddy and I 
drove downtown together and drank chocolate 
sodas — 

“ But then nobody is drinking chocolate sodas — 
at least no one is doing it light-heartedly. You 
can’t be light-hearted when the person you love best 
in the world is going to war. You can be brave, and 
you can make your lips laugh, but you can’t make 
your heart laugh — you can’t -— you can’t —. 

“ I talk a great deal to the women who come to 
Emily’s Toy Shop. And I am finding out that some 
of those that seem fluffy-minded are really very 
much in earnest. There is one little blonde, who 
always wears white silk and chiffon, she looks as if 
she had just stepped from the stage. And at first I 
simply scorned her. I felt that she would be the 
kind to leave ravellings in her wipes, and things 
like that. But she doesn’t leave a ravelling. She 
works slowly, but she does her work well —. But 
now and then her hands tremble and the tears fall; 
and the other day I went and sat down beside her 
and I found out that her husband is flying in 
France, and that her two brothers are at the 
395 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


front— And one of them is among the missing; 
he may be a prisoner and he may be dead —. And 
she is trying to do her bit and be brave. And now 
I don’t care if she does wear her earlocks outside of 
her veil and load her hands with diamonds — she’s 
a dear — and a darling. But she’s scared just as I 
am — and as Mary Connolly is, and as all the 
women are, though they don’t show it—. I won- 
der if Joan of Arc was afraid — in her heart as the 
rest of us are? Perhaps she wasn’t, because she 
was in the thick of it herself, and we aren’t. Per¬ 
haps if we were where we could see it and have the 
excitement of it all, we should lose our fear. 

“ But when women tell me that the women have 
the worst of it — that they must sit at home and 
weep and wait, I don’t believe it. We suffer — of 
course, and there’s the thought of it all like a bad 
dream, and when we love our loved ones — it is 
heartbreak. But the men suffer, daily, in all the 
little things. The thirst and the vermin, and the 
cold and wet — and the noise — and the frigbtful- 
ness. And they grow tired and hungry and home¬ 
sick,— and death is on every side of them, and hor¬ 
ror —. Some of the women who come to the shop 
sentimentalize a lot. One woman recited, ‘ Break, 
break, break —, the other day, and the rest of them 
cried into the gauze, cried for themselves , if you 
please; ‘For men must work and women mix st 
396 


THE HOPE OF THE WORLD 


weep/ And then my little blonde told them what 
Mie thought of them. Her name is ‘ Maisle/ 
wouldn’t you know a girl like that would be called 
• Maisie’ ? 

“ 6 If you think/ she said, ‘ that you suffer — what 
in Clod’s name will you think before the war is oyer? 
It hasn’t touched you. You won't know what su£- 
fering means until your men begin to come home* 
You talk about hardships; not one of you has gone 
hungry yet — and the men oyer there may be cut off 
at any moment from food supplies, and they are al¬ 
ways at the mercy of the camp cooks, who may or 
may not giye them things that they can eat. And 
they lie out under the stars with their wounds, and 
if any of you has a finger ache, you go to bed with 
hot water bottles and are coddled and cared for. 
But our boys,— there isn’t anyone to coddle them 
— they have to stick it out. And we’ve got to stick 
it out — and not be sorry for ourselves. Oh, why 
should we be sorry for ourselves? ’ The tears were 
streaming down her cheeks when she finished, and 
a gray-haired woman who had wept with the others 
got up and came over to her. ‘ My dear/ she said, 
' I shall never pity myself again. My two sons are 
over there, and I’ve been thinking how much I have 
given. But they have given their young lives, their 
futures — their bodies, to be broken —’ And then 
standing right in the middle of the Toy Shop that 
397 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


mother prayed for her sons, and for the sons of 
other women, and for the husbands and lovers, and 
that the women might be brave. 

“ Oh, it was wonderful — as she stood there like 
a white-veiled prophetess, praying. 

“ Yet a year ago she would have died rather than 
pray in public. She is a conservative, aristocratic 
woman, the kind that doesn’t wear rings or try to 
be picturesque — and she has always kept her feel¬ 
ings to herself, and said her prayers to herself — or 
in church, but never in all her life has she been so 
fine as she was the other day praying in the Toy 
Shop. 

“ Yet in a way I am sorry for myself. Not for 
me as I am to-day, but for the Jean of Yesterday, 
who thought that patriotism was remembering Bun¬ 
ker Hill! 

“ Of course in a way it is that — for Bunker Hill 
and Lexington and Valley Forge are a part of us 
because our grandfathers were there, and what they 
felt and did is a part of our feeling and doing. 

“ I have always thought of those old days as a 
sort of picture — the embattled farmers in their 
shirt-sleeves and with their hair blowing, and the 
Midnight Ride, and the lantern in the old North 
Church — and the Spirit of ’70. And it was the 
same with the Civil War; there was always the 
vision of cavalry sweeping up and down slopes as 
they do in the movies, and of the bugles calling, and 
3S8 


TEE HOPE OF TEE WORLD 


bands playing ‘ Marching through Georgia’ or 
i Dixie ' as the case might be — and flags flying — 
isn't it glorious to think that the men in gray are 
singing to-day, ‘ The Star Spangled Banner ’ with 
the rest of us? 

“ But my thoughts never had anything to do with 
money, though I suppose people gave it then, as 
they are giving now. But you can't paint pictures 
of men and women making out checks, and children 
putting thrift stamps in little books, so I suppose 
that in future the heroes and heroines of the emptied 
pocket-books will go down unsung —. 

“ It isn’t a bit picturesque to give until it hurts, 
but it helps a lot. I saw Sarah Bernhardt the other 
day in a wonderful little play where she's a French 
boy, who dies in the end — and she dies, exquisitely, 
with the flag of France in her arms — the faded, 
lovely flag — I shall never forget. The tears ran 
down my cheeks so that I couldn't see, but her voice, 
so faint and clear, still rings in my ears — 

“ If she had died clutching a Liberty Bond or 
wearing a Red Cross button, it would have seemed 
like burlesque. Yet there are men and w^omen who 
are going without bread and butter to buy Liberty 
Bonds, and who are buying them not as a safe in¬ 
vestment, as rich men buy, but because the boys 
need the money. And there ought to be poems writ¬ 
ten and statues erected to commemorate some of 
the sacrifices for the sake of the Red Cross. 

399 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ Yet I think that, in a way, we have not empha¬ 
sized enough the picturesque quality of this war, 
not on this side. They do it in France — they wor¬ 
ship their great flyers, their great generals, their 
crack regiments, everything has a personality, they 
are tender with their shattered cathedrals as if 
something human had been hurt, and the result is a 
quickening on the part of every individual, a flam¬ 
ing patriotism which as yet we have not felt. We 
don’t worship anything, we don't all of us know the 
words of ‘ The Star Spangled Banner’; fancy a 
Frenchman not knowing the words of the 1 Marseil¬ 
laise ’ or an Englishman forgetting ‘ God Save the 
King.’ We don’t shout and sing enough, we don’t 
cry enough, we don’t feel enough —- and that’s all 
there is to it. If we were hot for the triumph of 
democracy, there would be no chance of victory for 
the Hun. Perhaps as the war comes nearer, we 
shall feel more, and every day it is coming 
nearer —” 

It was very near, indeed. Thousands of those 
gray sheep were lying dead on the plains of Picardy 
— the Allies fought with their backs to the wall — 
Americans who had swaggered, secure in the prow¬ 
ess of Uncle Sam, swaggered no longer, and pon¬ 
dered on the parable of the Wise and FooMsk Vir¬ 
gins. 

Slowly the nation waked to what was before it. 
In America now lay the hope of the world. The 
400 


THE HOPE OF THE WORLD 


Wolf must be trapped, the sheep saved in spite of 
themselves, those poor sheep, driven blindly to 
slaughter. 

The General was not quite sure that they were 
sheep, or that they were being driven. He held, 
rather, that they knew what they were about — and 
were not to be pitied. 

Teddy, considering this gravely, went back to pre¬ 
vious meditations, and asked if he prayed for his 
enemies. 

“ Bless my soul,” said the old gentleman, “ why 
should I? ” 

“ Well, Mother says we must, and then some day 
they’ll stop and say they are sorry —” 

The General chuckled, “ Your mother is optimis¬ 
tic. 9 ’ 

“ What’s ’nopt’mistic? ” 

“It means always believing that nice things will 
happen.” 

“ Don’t you believe that nice things will hap¬ 
pen? ” 

“ Sometimes —” 

“ Don’t you believe that the war will stop? ” 

“Not until we’ve thrown the full force of our 
fighting men into it — at what a sacrifice.” 

“ Can’t God make it stop? ” 

“ He can, but He won’t, not if He’s a God of jus¬ 
tice,” said this staunch old patriot, “ until America 
has brought them to their knees —” 

401 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ Will they say they are sorry then? ” 

“ It won’t make very much difference what they 
say —” 

But Teddy, having been brought up to under¬ 
stand the things which belong to an officer and a 
gentleman, had his own ideas on the subject. 
“Well, I should think they’d ought to say they 
were sorry — 


CHAPTER XXVII 


MARCHING FEET 

The end of April brought much rain; torrents 
swept down the smooth streets, and the beauty of 
the carefully kept flower beds in the parks w r as 
blurred by the wet. 

The General, limping from window to window, 
chafed. He wanted to get out, to go oyer the hills 
and far away; with the coming of the spring the 
wander-hunger gripped him, and with this restless 
mood upon him he stormed at Bronson. 

“ IPs a dog’s life.” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Bronson, dutifully. 

“ It is dead lonesome, Bronson, and I can’t keep 
Jean tied here all of the time. She is looking pale, 
don’t you think she is looking pale? ” 

“ Yes, sir. I think she misses Mr. Derry.” 

“ Well, she’ll miss him a lot more before she gets 
him back,” grimly. “ He’ll be going over soon —” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ I wish I were going,” the old man was wistful. 
“ Think of it, Bronson, to be over there — in the 
thick of it, playing the game, instead of rotting 
here —” 


403 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


It was, of course, the soldiers point of view. 
Bronson, being hopelessly civilian, did his best to 
rise to what was expected of him. “ You like it 
then, sir? ” 

“ Like it? It is the only life. We’ve lost some¬ 
thing since men took up the game of business in 
place of the game of fighting.” 

“ But you see, sir, there’s no blood — in busi¬ 
ness,” Bronson tried to put it delicately. 

“ Isn’t there? Why, more men are killed in ac¬ 
cidents in factories than are killed in war — mur¬ 
dered by money-greedy employers.” 

“ Oh, sir, not quite that.” 

“ Yes, quite,” was the irascible response. “ You 
don’t know what you are talking about, Bronson. 
Bead statistics and find out.” 

“ Yes, sir. Will you have your lunch up now, 
sir? ” 

“ I’ll get it over and then you can order the car 
for me.” 

“ But the rain —? ” 

“ I like rain. I’m not sugar or salt.” 

Bronson, much perturbed, called up Jean. “ The 
General’s going out.” 

“ Oh, but he mustn’t, Bronson.” 

“ I can’t say ‘ mustn’t’ to him, Miss,” Bronson 
reported dismally. “ You’d better see what you 
can do —” 

But when Jean arrived, the General was gone! 

404 


MARCHING FEET 


u Well drive out through the country,” the old 
man had told his chauffeur, and had settled back 
among his cushions, his cane by his side, his foot 
up on the opposite seat to relieve him of the weight. 

And it was as he rode that he began to have a 
strange feeling about that foot w r hich no longer 
walked or bore him lightly. 

How he had marched in those bygone days! He 
remembered the first time he had tried to keep step 
with his fellows. The tune had been Yankee 
Doodle — with a fife and drum — and he was a raw 
young recruit in his queer blue uniform and visored 
cap —. 

And how eager his feet had been, how strongly 
they had borne him, spurning the dust of the road 
— as they would bear him no more —. 

There were men who envied him as he swept past 
them in the rain, men w T ho felt that he had more 
than his share of wealth and ease, yet he would have 
made a glad exchange for the feet which took them 
where they willed. 

He came at last to one of his old haunts, a small 
stone house on the edge of the Canal. From its 
wide porch he had often watched the slow boats go 
by, with men and women and children living in 
worlds bounded by weather-beaten decks. To-day 
in the rain there was a blur of lilac bushes along 
the tow path, but no boats were in sight; the Canal 
was a ruffled gray sheet in the April wind. 

405 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


Lounging in the low-ceiled front room of the stone 
house were men of the type with whom he had once 
foregathered — men not of his class or kind, but 
interesting because of their very differences — hu¬ 
man derelicts who had welcomed him. 

But now, for the first time he was not one of 
them. They eyed his elegances with suspicion — 
his fur coat, his gloves, his hat — the man whose 
limousine stood in front of the door was not one of 
them; they might beg of him, but they would never 
call him “ Brother.” 

So, because his feet no longer carried him, and 
he must ride, he found himself cast out, as it were, 
by outcasts. 

He ordered meat and drink for them, gave them 
money, made a joke or two as he limped among 
them, yet felt an alien. He watched them wist¬ 
fully, seeing for the first time their sordidness, see¬ 
ing what he himself had been, more sordid than any, 
because of his greater opportunities. 

Sitting apart, he judged them, judged himself. 
If all the world were like these men, what kind of 
world would it be? 

“ Why aren’t you fellows fighting? ” he asked 
suddenly. 

They stared at him. Grumbled. Why should 
they fight? One of them wept over it, called him¬ 
self too old—. 

But there were young men among them. “ For 
406 


MARCHING FEET 


God’s sake get out of this — let me kelp you get 
out.” The General stood up, leaned on kis cane. 
“ Look kere, I’ve done a lot of tkings in my time — 
tilings like tkis —” kis arm swept out towards tke 
table, “ and now I’ve only one good foot — tke otker 
will never be alive again. But you young ckaps, 
you’ve got two good feet — to marck. Do you know 
wkat tkat means, to marck? Left, rigkt, left, rigkt 
and step out bravely —. Yankee Doodle and your 
beads up, flags flying? And you sit kere like tkis? ” 
Two of tke men kad risen, young and strong. 
Tke General’s cane pounded — ke kad tkeir eyes! 
“ Left, rigkt, left, rigkt — all over tke world men 
are marcking, and you sit kere —” 

Tke years seemed to kave dropped from kim. 
His voice rang witk a fire tkat kad once drawn men 
after kim. He kad led a ckarge at Gettysburg, and 
kis men had followed! 

And these two men would follow kim. He saw 
tke dawn of their resolve in their faces. “ There’s 
fine stuff in both of you,” ke said, “ and tke country 
needs you. Isn’t it better to fight than to sit kere? 
Get into my car and I’ll take you down.” 

“Aw, what’s eatin’ you,” one of tke older men 
growled. “ What game’s this? Recruitin’?” 

But the young men asked no questions. They 
came — glad to come. Roused out of a lethargy 
which had bound them. Waked by a ringing old 
voice. 


407 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


The General was rather quiet when he reached 
4ume 0 Jean and Bronson, who had suffered tor¬ 
ments, watched him with concerned eyes. And, as 
if he divined it, he laid his hand over Jean’s. “ I 
did a good day’s work, my dear. I got two men for 
the Army, and I’m going to get more —” 

And he did get more. He went not only in the 
rain, but in the warmth of the sun, when the old 
fruit trees bloomed along the tow path, and the 
hacks of the mules were shining black, and the 
women came out on deck with their washing. 

And always he spoke to the men of marching 
feet—. Now and then he sang for them in that 
thin old voice whose thinness was so overlaid by the 
passion of his patriotism that those who listened 
found no flaw in it. 

94 He has sounded forth the trumpet that has never called re¬ 
treat, 

He is sifting forth the hearts of men before his Judgment seat, 
O be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet, 

Our God is marching on-—” 

There was no faltering now, no fumbled words. 
With head up, singing—“ Be jubilant, my feet —” 
Sometimes he took Jean with him, but not always. 
“ There are places that I don’t like to have you go, 
my dear, but those are where I get my men.” 

At other times when he came out to where she 
sat in the car there would flash before his eyes the 
408 


MARCHING FEET 


vision of Ms wife's face, as she, too, had once sat 
there, waiting — 

Sometimes he took the children, and rode with 
them on a slow-moving barge from one lock to an¬ 
other, with the limousine meeting them at the end. 

So he travelled the old paths, innocently, as he 
might have travelled them throughout the years. 

Yet if he thought of those difficult years, he said 
never a word. He felt, perhaps, that there was 
nothing to say. He took to himself no credit for 
the things he was doing. If age and infirmity had 
brought to him a realization of all that he had 
missed, he w 7 as surely not to be praised for doing 
that which was, obviously, his duty. 

Yet it gave him a new zest for life, and left Jean 
freer than she had been before. It left her, too, 
without the fear of him, which had robbed their 
relationship of all sense of security. 

“ You see, I never knew," she wrote in her mem¬ 
ory book, “ w r hat might happen. I had visions of 
myself going after him in the night as Derry had 
gone and his mother. I used to dream about it, 
and dread it." 

Yet she had said nothing of her dread to Derry in 
her smiling letters, and as men think of women, he 
had thought of her in the sick room as a guardian 
angel, shining and serene. 


409 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


And now, faint and far came to the men in the 
cantonments the sound of battles across the sea. 
The bugles calling them each morning seemed t® 
say, “ Soon, soon, you will go, you will go, you will 

go —” 

To Derry, listening, it seemed the echo of the 
fairy trumpets, “ Trutter-a-trutt, trutter-a-trutt, you 
will go, you will go, you will go —” 

It was strange how the thought of it drew him, 
drew him as even the thoughts of Jean his bride 
did not draw—. He remembered that years ago 
he had smiled with a tinge of tolerant sophistication 
over the old lines: 

“ I could not love thee, dear, so much, 

Loved I not honor more—” 

Yet here it was, a truth in his own life. A 
woman meaning more to him than she could ever 
have meant in times of peace, because he could go 
forth to fight for her, his life at stake, for her. It 
was for her, and for other women that his sword 
was unsheathed. 

“ If only they could understand it,” he wrote to 
Jean. “ You haven’t any idea what rotten letters 
some of the women write. Blaming the men for go¬ 
ing over seas. Blaming them for going into it at 
all. Taking it as a personal offense that their 
lovers have left them. ‘ If you had loved me, you 
410 


MARCHING FEET 


couldn’t have left me/ was the way one woman put 
it, and I found a poor fellow mooning over it and 
asked him what was the matter. * It isn’t a ques¬ 
tion of what we want to do, it is a question of what 
we’ve got to do, if we call ourselves men,’ he said. 
But she couldn’t see that, she was measuring her 
emotions by an inch rule. 

“ But, thank God, most of the women are the real 
thing — true as steel and brave. And it is those 
women that the men worship. It is a masculine 
trait to want to be a sort of hero in the eyes of the 
woman you love. When she doesn’t look at it that 
way, your plumes droop! ” 

And now the bugles rang with a clearer note — 
not, u You will go, you will go —” but, “ Do not 
wait, do not w y ait, do not wait.” 

The cry from abroad was Macedonian. “ Come 
over and help us! ” It was to America that the 
ghosts of those fighting hordes appealed. 

“ Take up our quarrel with the foe, 

To you from falling hands we throw 
The torch — be yours to hold it high. 

If ye break faith with us who die, 

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 
In Flanders’ field—” 

Gradually there had grown up in the hearts of 
simple men a flaming response to that sacred charge. 
Men whose dreams had never reached beyond a 
411 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


day’s frivolity, found springing up in tlieir souls a 
desire to do some deed to match that of the other 
fellow who slept “ in Flanders field.” 

“ To you from falling hands we throw the torch — 
be yours to hold it high —the little man who had 
measured cloth behind a counter, the boy who had 
sold papers on the streets, the bank clerk who had 
bent over his books, the stenographer who had been 
bound to the wheel of everlasting dictation, were 
lighted by the radiance of that vision, “ to hold it 
high — 

“ Gee, I never used to think,” said Tommy Tracy, 
“ that I might have a chance to do a stunt like 
that.” 

“ Like what ? ” Derry asked. 

Tommy found it a thing rather hard to express. 
u Well, when you’ve been just a common sort of 
chap, to die — for the other fellow —” 

So men’s bodies grew and their muscles hardened. 
But their souls grew, too, expanding to the breadth 
and height of the things which were waiting for 
them to do across the sea. 

And one morning Derry was granted a furlough, 
and started home. He sent no word ahead of him. 
He wanted to come upon them unawares. To catch 
the light that would be on Jean’s face when she 
looked up and saw him. 

There was rain and more rain when at last he 
arrived in Washington. The trees as his taxi 
412 


MARCHING FEET 


traversed the wide avenues showed clear green, 
melting into vistas of amethyst and gray. The 
parks as he passed were starred with the bright yel¬ 
low and pinks of flowering shrubs. Washington, 
in spite of the rain, was as lovely as a woman 
whose color blooms behind a veil. 

He came into the great house unannounced, hav¬ 
ing his key with him. The General was out for a 
ride, the children with him, Margaret and Emily 
and Jean aw r ay, the servants in the back of the 
house. 

Derry, going up the stairs, two steps at a time, 
stopped on the landing w T ith head uncovered to greet 
his mother. 

Oh, lovely painted lady, is this the little white¬ 
faced lad you loved, the big bronzed man, fresh from 
hardships, strong in the sense of the thing lie has to 
do? 

No promise made to you could hold him now. He 
has weighed your small demands in the balance with 
the world’s great need. 

He did not tarry long. Straight as an eagle to 
its mate, he swept through the hall and knocked at 
the door of Jean’s room. There was no response. 
He knocked again, turned the handle, entered, and 
found the room empty. The tin soldier on the shelf 
shouted, “ Welcome, welcome — comrade,” but 
Derry had no ears to hear. Everywhere were signs 
of Jean; her fat memory book open on her desk, the 
413 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


ivory and gold appointments of her dressing table* 
her pink slippers* her prayer book — his own pic¬ 
ture with flowers in front of it as before a shrine. 

“ My dear* my darling*” his heart said when he 
saw that. What* after all, was he that she should 
worship him? 

Impatient* he rang for Bronson* and the old man 
came — bewildered* hurried, joyful. “ It’s a great 
surprise, sir* but it’s good to see you.” 

“ It’s good to see you, Bronson. Where’s Miss 
Jean? ” 

“ At Miss Emily’s shop* sir.” 

“ As late as this? ” 

“ Sometimes later. She tries to get home in time 
for dinner.” 

“ Where’s Dad?” 

u Driving with the children, and the ladies are 
out on war work.” 

A year ago women had played bridge at this hour 
in the afternoon, but there was no playing now. 

“ Don’t tell Dad that I am here. I’ll come back 
presently with Mrs. Drake.” 

And now down the hall came an old gray 
dog* wild with delight, outracing Polly Ann, who 
thought it was a play and leaped after him — Muf¬ 
fin had found his master! 

But Derry left Muffin, left Bronson, left Polly 
Ann, a wistful trio at the front door. He must 
find Jean! 


414 


MARCHING FEET 


The day was darkening, and a light burned far 
back on the Toy Shop. Derry, standing outside, 
saw a room which was the very wraith of the gay 
little shop as he had left it — with its white tables, 
its long counters piled high with finished dressings; 
the white elephants in a spectral row behind glass 
doors on the top shelf the only reminder of what 
it once had been. 

He saw, too, a small nun-like figure behind the 
counter, a figure all in white, with a white veil 
banded about her forehead and flowing down be¬ 
hind. 

All of her bright hair was hidden, her eyes w T ere 
on the compresses that she was counting. It 
seemed to him that there was a sharpened look on 
the little face. 

He had not expected this. He had felt that he 
-would find her glowing as she had been on that first 
night when he had followed his father through the 
rain — his dream had been of crinkled copper hair, 
of silver and rose, of youth and laughter and light¬ 
ness —. 

Her letters had been like that — gay, sparkling 
— there had been times when they had seemed al¬ 
most too exuberant, times w r hen he had wondered if 
she had really w r aked to the seriousness of the great 
struggle, and the part he was to play in it. 

Yet now he saw signs of suffering. He opened 
the door. “ Jean,” he cried. 

415 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


With the "blood all drained from her face, she 
stared at him as if she saw a specter —“ Derry/’ 
she whispered* 

With his strong arms, he lifted her oyer the coun¬ 
ter. “ Jean-Joan, Jean-Joan —” 

When at last she released herself, it was to laugh 
through her tears. “ Derry, pull down the shades; 
what will people think?” 

He cared little what people would think. And, 
anyway, very few people were passing at that late 
hour in the rain. But he pulled them down, and 
when he came back, he held her off at arm’s length. 
w What haye you been doing to yourself, dearest? 
You are a feather-weight.” 

“ Well, I’ve been working.” 

“ How does it happen that you are here alone? ” 

* Emily had to go down to order supplies, and 
Margaret went to a Liberty Loan meeting. I often 
stay like this to count and tie.” 

“ Don’t you get dreadfully tired? ” 

“ Yes. But I think I like to get tired. It keeps 
me from thinking too much.” 

He drew her to him. “ Take off your veil,” he 
Said, almost roughly. “ I want to see your hair.” 

Divested of her headcovering, she was more like 
herself, but even then he was not content. He 
loosed a hairpin here and there and ran his fin¬ 
gers through the crinkled gold. “ If you knew how 
I’ve dreamed of it, Jean-Joan.” 

416 


MARCHING FEET 


But he had not dreamed of the dearness of the 
little face. “ My darling, you have been pining, and 
I didn’t know it.” 

“ Well, didn’t you like my smiling letters ? ” 

u So that was it? You’ve been trying to cheer 
me up, and letting yourself get like this.” 

“ I didn’t want to worry you.” 

u Didn’t you know that I’d want to be worried 
with anything that pertained to you? What’s a 
husband for, dearest, if you can’t tell him your 
troubles? ” 

“ Yes, but a soldier-husband, Derry, is different. 
You’ve got to keep smiling —” 

Her lips trembled and she clung to him. “ It is 
so good to have you here, Derry.” 

She admitted, later, that she had confided her 
troubles to her memory book. “ There weren’t any 
big things, really — just missing you and all 
that —” 

He was jealous of the memory book. “ I shall 
read every word of it.” 

“Not until you come back from the war— and 
then we can laugh at it together.” 

They fell into silence after that. With his arms 
about her he thought that he might not come back, 
and she clinging to him had the same thought. But 
neither told the other. 

“ Do you know,” she said at last, sitting up and 
sticking the hairpins into her crinkled knot. “ Do 
417 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


you know that it’s almost time for dinner, and that 
the General will wonder where I am? ” 

“ I told Bronson not to tell him.” 

“Oh, really, Derry? Let’s make it a great sur- 
prise.” 

Providentially the General was late. He and the 
children came home to find the house quite remark¬ 
ably illumined, and Margaret flushed and excited, 
and in white. 

“ Is it a party, Mother? ” Teddy asked, lending 
his shoulder manfully to the General’s hand, as, 
with the chauffeur on the other side, they helped 
the old man up the stairs. 

“ No, but on such a rainy night Bronson and I 
thought we’d have a little feast. Don’t you think 
that would be fun? ” 

The General was tired. “ I had planned not to 
come down again —” 

“ Please do,” she begged. 

Bronson, knowing his master’s moods, was on tip¬ 
toe with anxiety. “ I’ve your things all laid out, 
sir.” 

“ Well, well, I’ll see.” 

Teddy, somewhat out of breath as they reached 
the top landing was inspired to remark, “ We’ll be 
’spointed if you don’t come down —” 

“ You want me, eh? ” 

“ Yes, I do. There isn’t any other man —” 

The General chuckled. “ Well, that’s reason 
418 


MARCHING FEET 

enough —. You can count on me, Ted, for maseu* 
line support.” 

The table was laid for six. Teddy appearing 
presently in the dining room pointed out the fact to 
Bronson, who was taking a last look. 

“ Is Margaret-Mary coming down? ” 

“ She may later, for the sweets.” 

“ Those aren’t her spoons and forks.” 

“Well, well,” said Bronson, “so they aren’t”; 
but he did not haye them changed. 

The General in his dinner coat, perfectly groomed, 
immaculate, found Jean in rose and silver waiting 
for him. 

“ How gay we are,” he said, and pinched her 
cheek. 

Teddy in white linen and patent leathers also 
approved. “You’ve got on your spangly dwess, 
and it makes you pwetty —” 

“Oh, Ted, is it just my clothes that make me 
pretty? ” 

“I didn’t mean that. Only tonight you’re so 
nice and — shining.” 

She shone, indeed, with such effulgence, that it 
was a wonder that the General did not suspect. 
But he did not, even when she said, “ We have a 
surprise for you.” 

“ For me, my dear? ” 

“ Yes. A parcel — it came this afternoon. We 
want you to untie the string.” 

419 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


u Where is it? ” Teddy demanded. 

“ On the table in the bine room.” 

Teddy rushed in ahead of the rest, came back and 
reported, “ It’s a big one.” 

It was a big one, cone-shaped and tied up in 
brown paper. It was set on a heavy carved table, 
a length of tapestry was under it and hid the legs 
of the table. 

“ It looks like a small tree,” the General re¬ 
marked. “ But why all this air of mystery? ” 

He was plainly bored by the fuss they were mak¬ 
ing. He was tired, and he wanted his dinner. 

But Jean, in an excited voice, was telling him to 
cut the string, and Bronson was handing him a 
knife. 

And then — the paper dropped and everybody 
was laughing, and Teddy was screaming wildly and 
he was staring at the khaki-clad upper half of a 
tall young soldier whose silver-blond hair was 
clipped close, and whose hand went up in salute. 

“ It’s Cousin Derry. It’s Cousin Derry,” Teddy 
was shouting, and Margaret-Mary piped up, “ It’s 
Tousin Dee.” 

Derry stepped out from behind the table, where 
leaning forward and wrapped up he had lent him¬ 
self to the illusion, and put both hands on the Gen* 
eral’s shoulders. “ Glad to see me, Dad? ” 

“ Glad, my dear boy —” It was almost too much 
for him. 


420 


MARCHING FEET 


Yet as supported by Ms sous arm, they went a 
moment later into the dining room, he had a sense 
of renewed strength in the youth and vigor of this 
youth who was bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh. 
If his own feet could not march here were feet 
which would march for him. 

There were flowers on the table, most extrava¬ 
gantly, for these war times, orchids; and there were 
tall white candles in silver holders. 

Jean shining between the candles was a wonder 
for the world to gaze upon. Derry couldn’t keep 
Ms eyes off her. This was no longer a little nun of 
the Toy Shop, yet he held the vision of the little 
nun in his heart, lest he should forget that she had 
suffered. 

He talked to them all. But beating like a wave 
against his consciousness was always the thought 
of Jean. Of the things he had to tell her which he 
could tell to no one else. He knew now that he 
could reveal to her the depths of his nature. He 
had withheld so much, fearing to crush her butter¬ 
fly wings, but she was not a butterfly. They had 
been playing at cross purposes, and writing letters 
that merely skimmed the surface of their emotions. 
It had taken those moments in the Toy Shop to 
teach them their mistake. 

Teddy, feeling that the occasion called for a re¬ 
laxing of the children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard 
rule, asked questions. 


421 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 

u How long can you stay? ” 

“ Ten days.’’ 

4< Are you going to Fwance? ” 

“ I hope so.” 

“ Mother says I’ve got to pray for the Germans.” 

“ Teddy/’ Margaret admonished. 

“ Well, I rather think I would/’ Derry told him. 
u They need it.” 

This was a new angle. “ Shall you hate to kill 
them? ” 

There was a stir about the table. The old man 
and the women seemed to hang on Derry's answer. 

“ Yes, I shall hate it. I hate all killing, but it’s 
got to be done.” 

He spoke presently, at length, of what many men 
thought of war. 

“We are red-blooded enough, we Americans, but 
I think we hate killing the other man rather more 
than we fear being killed. It’s sickening — bay¬ 
onet practice. Killing at long range is different. 
The children of my generation were trained to 
tender-heartedness. We looked after the birds and 
rescued kittens, and were told that wars were im¬ 
possible — long wars. But war is not impossible, 
and it has come upon us, and we are finding that 
men must be brave not merely in the face of losing 
their own lives, but in the face of taking the lives of 
— others. I sometimes wonder what it must have 
seemed to those Germans who went first into Bel- 
422 


MARCHING FEET 

gimn. Some of them must have been kind — some" 
of them must have asked to be shot rather than be 
set at the work of butchery. 

“ I sometimes think/’ he pursued, “ that if we 
could give moving pictures of the war just as it is 
— in all its horror and hideousness — show the pic¬ 
tures in every little town in every country in the 
world, that war would stop at once. If the Ger¬ 
mans could see themselves in those towns in Bel¬ 
gium — if the world could see them. If we could 
see men mowed down — wounded, close up, as our 
soldiers see them. If our people should be forced 
to look at those pictures, as the people of war-rid¬ 
den countries have been forced to gaze upon reali¬ 
ties, money would be provided and men provided in 
such amounts and numbers that those who began 
the war would be forced to end it on the terms the 
world would set for them. 

“ The fact that men are going into this war in 
spite of their aversion to killing shows the stuff of 
which they are made. It is like drowning kittens,” 
he smiled a little. “ It has to be done or the world 
would be overrun by cats.” 

Teddy, wide-eyed, was listening. “ Do people 
drown kittens?” he asked. “ Oh, I didn’t think 
they would.” It was a sad commentary on the con¬ 
ditions of war that he was more heavily oppressed 
by the thought of drowned little cats than by the 
murder of men. 


423 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


“ My dear fellow,” Derry said, “ we won’t talk 
about such things. I must beg your pardon for 
mentioning it.” 

The talk flowed on then in lighter vein. “ Ralph 
Witherspoon is in town,” Jean vouchsafed. “ He 
had a bad fall and was sent home to get over it. 
Mrs. Witherspoon has asked me there to dine. I 
shall take you with me.” 

“ I didn’t know that people were dining out in 
these times.” 

“ Mrs. Witherspoon prides herself on her con¬ 
servation menus. She says that she serves war 
things, that she gives us nothing to eat that the men 
need, and she likes her friends about her.” 

“ We shall miss Drusilla,” Derry said. “ I’ve 
been worried about her since the Huns recaptured 
those towns in France.” 

“ Daddy wrote that she is not far from his hos¬ 
pital, doing splendid work, and that the men adore 
her.” 

“ They would,” said Derry. “ She is a great¬ 
hearted creature. I can fancy her singing to them 
over there. You know what a wonder she was at 
that sort of thing —” 

After dinner the General was eager to have his 
son to himself. “ The women will excuse us while 
we smoke and talk.” 

Derry’s eyes wandered to Jean. “ All right,” he 
said with an effort. 


424 


MARCHING FEET 


The General’s heart tightened. His son was Ms 
son. The little girl in silver and rose was in a 
sense an outsider. She had not known Derry 
throughout the years, as his father had known him. 
How could she care as much? 

Yet she did care. He realized how Derry’s com¬ 
ing had changed her. He heard her laugh as she 
had not laughed in all the weeks of loneliness. She 
came up and stood beside Derry, and linked her 
arm in his and looked up at him with shining eyes. 

“ Isn't he — wonderful? ” she asked, with a catch 
of her breath. 

“ Oh, take her away,” the old gentleman said. 
“ Go and talk to her somewhere.” 

Derry’s face brightened. “ You don't mind? ” 

“ Of course not,” stoutly. “ Bronson says that 
the rain has stopped. There's probably a moon 
somewhere, if you’ll look for it.” 

Margaret went up to put the children to bed. 
Emily, promising to come back, withdrew to write 
a letter. The old man sat alone. 

He limped into the blue room, and gazed in¬ 
differently around on its treasures. Once he had 
cared for these plates and cups —his quest for 
rare porcelains had been eager. 

And now he did not care. The lovely glazed 
things were for the eye, not for the heart. Be 
would have given them all for the touch of a loving 
hand, for a voice that grew tender —. 

425 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


There was the patter of little feet on the polished 
floor. Margaret-Mary in a diminutive blue dress¬ 
ing gown and infinitesimal slippers, with her curls 
brushed tidily up from the back of her neck and 
skewered with a hairpin, came over and laid her 
hand on his knee. “ Dus a ? itte ’tory? ” she asked 
ingratiatingly. She adored stories. 

He picked her up, and she curled herself into the 
corner of his arm. 

Her mother found her there. “ Mother’s naughty 
little girl,” she said, “ to run away —” 

“ Let her stay,” the General begged. “ Somehow 
jny heart needs her tonight.” 


426 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


SIX DAYS 

Four days of Derry’s furlough had passed, four 
palpitating days, and now the hours that the lovers 
spent together began to take on the poignant quality 
of coming separation. Every moment counted, 
nothing must be lost, nothing must be left unsaid, 
nothing must be left undone which should empha- 
size their oneness of thought and purpose. 

They read together, they walked together, they 
rode together, they went to church together. If 
they included the General in their plans it was be¬ 
cause they felt his need of them, not theirs of him. 
They lived in a world created to survive for ten 
days and then to collapse like a pricked bubble — 

And it was because of the dread of collapse that 
Jean began to plan a structure of remembrance 
which should endure after Derry’s departure. 

“ Darling,” she said, “ there are only six days — 
“ What shall we do with them? ” 

THE FIFTH DAY 

It was Sunday, and in the morning they went 
dutifully to church. They ate their luncheon duti- 
427 


TEE TIE SOLDIER 


fully with the whole family, and motored dutifully 
afterwards with the General. Then at twilight 
they sought the Toy Shop. 

They had it all to themselves, and they had told 
Bronson that they would not he home for dinner* 
So Jean made chocolate for Derry as she had made 
it on that first night for his father. They toasted 
war bread on the electric grill, and there were 
strawberries. 

They were charmed with their housekeeping. 
iC It would have been like this,” Derry said—all 
eyes for her loveliness, “ if you had been the girl in 
the Toy Shop and I had been the shabby boy —” 

Jean pondered. “ I wonder if a big house is ever 
really a home?” 

“ Not ours. Mother tried to make it — but it has 
always been a sort of museum with Dad’s collec* 
tions.” 

“ Do you think that some day we could have a 
little house ? 99 

“We can have whatever you want.” His smile 
warmed her. 

“ Wouldn’t you want it, Derry? ” 

“ If you were in it.” 

“ Let’s talk about it, and plan it, and put dream 
furniture in it, and dream friends —” 

“ More Lovely Dreams? 99 

“ Well, something like that — a House o’ Dreams, 
Derry, without any gold dragons or marble halls or 
428 


SIX DAYS 


queer porcelain things; just our own bits of furni¬ 
ture and china, and a garden, and Muffin and Polly 
Ann —” Her eyes were wistful. 

“ You shall have it now if you wish.” 

“ Kot until you can share it with me —” 

And that was the beginning of their fantastic 
pilgrimage. In the time that was left to them they 
were to find a house of dreams, and as Jean said, 
expansively, “ all the rest.” 

“ We will start tonight,” Derry declared, 
“ There’s such a moon.” 

It was the kind of moon that whitened the world; 
one swam in a sea of light. Derry’s runabout was 
a fairy car. Jean’s hair was molten gold, her 
lover’s pale silver — as with bare heads, having 
passed the city limits, they took the open road. 

It was as warm as summer, and there were 
fragrances w r hich seemed to wash over them in 
waves as they passed old gardens and old orchards. 
There was bridal-wreath billowing above stone 
fences, snow-balls, pale globes among the green, 
beds of iris, purple-black beneath the moon. 

They forded a stream — more silver, and a silver 
road after that. 

“ Where are we going? ” Jean breathed. 

“ I know a house —” 

It was a little house set on top of a hill, where 
indeed no little house should be set, for little houses 
should nestle, protected by the slopes back of them. 

429 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


But this little house was set up there for the view 
— the Monument a spectral shaft, miles away, the 
Potomac broadening out beyond it, the old trees of 
the Park sleeping between. This was what the 
little house saw by night; it saw more than that by 
day. 

It was not an empty house. One window^ was 
lighted, a square of gold in a lower room. 

They did not know who lived in the house. They 
did not care. For the moment it was theirs. 
Leaving the car, they sat on the grass and surveyed 
their property. 

“ Of course it is ours,” Jean said, “ and when you 
are over there, you can think of it with the moon 
shining on it.” 

“ I like the sloping roof,” her lover took up the 
refrain, “ and the big chimney and the wide win¬ 
dows.” 

“ I can sit on the window seat and watch for you, 
Derry, and there will be smoke coming out of the 
chimney on cold days, and a fire roaring on the 
hearth when you open the door —” 

They decided that there ought to be eight 
rooms—, and they named them, The Log-Fire 
Boom; The Boom of Little Feasts; the Place of 
Pots and Pans — 

“ That's the first floor,” said Jean. 

“ Yes.” 

The upper floor w r as harder—The Boyal Suite; 
d30 


SIX DAYS 


The Friendly Room, for the dream maid of all work; 
The Spare Chamber — 

“ My grandmother had a spare chamber/’ Jean 
explained, “ and I always liked the sound of it, as 
if she kept her hospitality pressed down and run¬ 
ning oyer —” 

Derry, who had written it all by the light of the 
moon, held his pencil poised. “ There is one more/’ 
he said, “ the little room towards the West —” 

Jean hesitated for the breadth of a second. 
“ Well, we may need another,” she said, and left it 
nameless. 

The door opened and a man came out. If he saw 
them, they meant nothing to him — a pair of lovers 
by the wayside; there were many such. 

He paced back and forth on the gravel walk. 
They could hear the crunch of it under his feet. 
They saw the shining tip of his cigar — smelt its 
fragrance —. 

Again the door opened, to frame a woman. She 
called and her voice was young. 

“ Dearest, it is late. Are you coming in ? 99 

His young voice answered. His far-flung cigar- 
end trailed across the darkness, his eager steps gave 
quick response — the door was shut —. 

“ Oh, Derry, I’d call you like that — 99 

“ And I should come.” 

The light went out on the lower floor, and pres¬ 
ently in a room above a window was illumined. 

431 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


THE SIXTH DAY 

A dream house must have dream furniture. 
There are old shops in Alexandria, where, less often 
than in earlier years, one may find treasures, bow- 
legged chairs and gate-legged tables, yellowed let¬ 
ters written by famous pens, steel engravings which 
have hung in historic halls, pewter and plate, Luster 
and Sevres, Wedgwood and Willow, Chippendale 
and Hepplewhite, Adams and Empire, everything 
linked with some distinguished name, everything 
with a story, real or invented. One may buy an 
ancestor for a song, or at least the portrait of 
one, and silver with armorial bearings, and no one 
will know if you do not tell them that your heir¬ 
looms have come from a shop. 

And Alexandria, as all the world knows, is 
reached from Washington by motor and trolley, 
train or ferry. 

It was by ferry that the lovers preferred to go in 
the glory of this May morning, feeling the breeze 
fresh in their faces as with a motley crowd they 
stood on the lower deck and looked towards the old 
town. 

Thus they came to the wharves, flanked by ancient 
warehouses in a straggly row along the water line. 
The windows of these ancient edifices had looked 
down on Revolutionary heroes, the old brick walls 
had echoed to the sound of fife and drum — the old 
432 


SIX DAYS 


streets had once been thronged by men in bine and 
buff. Since those days the quaint little city had 
basked in the pride of her traditions. She had 
tolerated nothing modern until within this very 
year she had waked to find that her redcoat enemy 
was now her friend, that the roads which George 
Washington had travelled were being trod once 
more by marching men; that in the church where 
he had worshipped prayers were being said once 
more for men in battle. 

And into the shops, with their storied antiques, 
drifted now men in olive-drab and men in blue, and 
men in forester’s green, who laughed at the flint 
locks and powder horns, saluted the Father of his 
Country whenever they passed his picture, gazed 
with reverence on ancient swords and uniforms, 
dickered for such small articles as might be bought 
out of their limited allowances, and paid in the end, 
cheerfully, prices which would have been scorned 
by any discriminating buyer. 

“ There must be a table for the Log-Fire Room,” 
Jean told her husband, “ and a fire-bench, not too 
high, and a big chair for you, and another chair 
for me —” 

“ And a stool for your little feet — 

“ And a desk for you, Derry.” 

“ And an oval mirror with a gold frame, for me to 
see your face in, Jean-Joan —” 

Then there was a four-poster bed with pine- 
433 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


apples, and an Adams screen, an old brass-bound 
chest, the most adorable things in Sheffield and crys¬ 
tal, and to crown it all, a picture of George Wash¬ 
ington — a print, faintly colored, with the coun¬ 
try’s coat of arms carved on the frame. 

Yet not one thing did they buy except a quite 
sumptuous and splendid marriage coffer which sug¬ 
gested itself at once as the only wedding present for 
Emily. 

The price took Jean’s breath away. “ But, dear¬ 
est —” 

“ Nothing is too good for Emily, Jean-Joan.” 

That night Derry drew a picture of the house in 
Jean’s memory book. 

“ I’ll put a garden in front —” 

“ How can you put in a garden, Derry, when 
there isn’t one? ” 

She wore a lace robe and a lace cap, and there 
were pink ribbons threaded in, and her cheeks were 
pink. “ You can’t put in a garden until there is 
one, Derry. When we find it, it must be a love- 
some garden, with the old-fashioned flowers, and a 
fountain with a cupid — and a fish-pond.” 

With this settled, he proceeded, with facile pen, 
to furnish the house. There was the Log-Fire 
Room, with the print of George Washington over 
the mantel, with Jean’s knitting on the table; Muf- 
^n on one side of the fire, and Polly Ann on the 
434 


SIX DAYS 


other. He even started to put Jean in one of the 
big chairs, but she made him rub it out. “ Not yet, 
Derry. You see, I am not living in it yet. I am 
living here, with you alive and loving —” 

He caught her to him. “ When you are away 
from me/’ she whispered, “ I’ll live in it — and 
you’ll be there — and I shall never feel alone —” 
Yet later, Derry coming in unexpectedly after a 
talk with his father, found her sobbing with her 
head on the fat old book. 

“ My darling —” 

“ It isn’t that I am unhappy, Derry —. It is 
just for that one little minute, I wanted it to be 
real —” 


THE SEVENTH DAY 

It was on the morning of the seventh day that a 
letter came from Drusilla. 

“ Dear Babes in the Wood: 

“ I am writing this to tell you that the next time 
I see Captain Hewes, I am going to marry him. 
That sounds a little like a hold-up, doesn’t it? But 
it is the way we are doing things over here. He 
has wanted it for so long, and I am beginning to 
know that I want it, too. It has been hard to tell 
just what was really best in the face of all that is 
happening. It has seemed sometimes as if it were a 
sacrilege to think of love and life in the midst of 
death and destruction. 

“ I shan't have any trousseau; I shan’t have a 
435 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


wedding journey. He will just blow in some day, 
and the chaplain will marry us, and the little old 
cure of this village will give us his blessing. 

“ I never expected to be married like this. You 
know the kind of mind I have. I must always see 
the picture of myself doing things, and there had 
always been a sort of dream of some great church 
with a blur of gold light at the far end, and myself 
floating up the aisle in a cloud of white veil, and a 
hushed crowd and the organ playing. 

“ And it won’t be a bit like that. I shall wear a 
uniform and a flannel shirt, and I’ll be lucky if my 
boots are not splashed with mud. It will seem 
queer to be married with my boots on, as men died 
in old romances. 

“ Perhaps by the time this reaches you, Drusilla 
Gray will be Drusilla Hewe^, and so I ask your 
blessing, and your prayers. 

“ I should never have asked for your prayers a 
year ago. I should have been thanking you for your 
wedding present of glass and silver, and asking you 
to dine with me on Tuesday or Thursday as the case 
might be. But now, the only thought that holds 
me is whether God will give my Captain back to 
me, and the hope that if not, I may have the strength 
to bear it —. 

“ I am sure that Derry will feel the sublimity of 
it all when he comes — death is so near, yet so little 
feared; the men know that tonight or- tomorrow 
they may be beyond the shadows, and it holds them 
to something bigger than themselves. 

“ But be sure of this, my dears, that when Derry 
goes the seas will not part you —. Spirit touches 
spirit, space has nothing to do with it. Often when 
436 


SIX DAYS 


I am alone, the Captain comes to me, speaks to me, 
cheers me; I think if he should die in battle, he 
would still come. 

“ If ever I have a home of my own, I shall build 
an altar not to the Unknown God but to the God 
whom I had lost and have found again. I go into 
old churches here to pray, and it is no longer a mat¬ 
ter of feeling, no longer a matter of form, it is some¬ 
thing more than that. 

“ And now I can’t ask you to dance at my wed¬ 
ding, but I can ask you to wish me happiness and 
a long life with my lover, or failing that, the 
strength to give him up —” 

She signed herself, “ Always loving you both, 

“ Drusilla.” 

“ Such a dear letter,” said Jean. 

“ And such a different Brasilia. Do you think 
that the Brasilia of the old days would have built 
an altar? ” 

And it was because of Brasilia’s letter that 
Berry took Jean that afternoon to the great Library 
with the gold dome and guided her to a corridor 
made beautiful by the brush of an artist who had 
painted “ The Occupations of the Day ”; in one 
lunette a primitive man and woman knelt before a 
pile of stones on which burned a sacred flame. 
Above them was blue sky — flowers grew within 
reach of their hands —■ the fields stretched beyond. 

“ We must build an altar, dearest.” 

“ In our hearts —” 

u And in our House of Breams —” 

437 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


THE EIGHTH DAY 

There was no getting out of the Witherspoon 
dinner, and it was when Ralph greeted Jean that he 
said to her, “ Yon are lovelier than ever.” 

She smiled at him. “ It is because my heart is 
singing —” 

“ Do yon feel like that? ” 

She nodded. “ In three days the song will cease 
— the lights will go out, and the curtain will fall — 
the end of the world will come.” 

“ Drake goes in three days? ” 

“ He goes back to camp. I don’t expect to see 
him again before he sails.” 

“ Lucky fellow.” 

“ To go? ” 

“ To have you.” 

“ Please don’t.” 

“ Let me say this — that I acted like a cad; I’d 
like to feel that you’ve forgiven me.” 

“I have forgotten, which is better, isn’t it?” 

“ How sweet you are — and all the sweetness is 
Derry’s. Well, when I go over, will you pray for 
me, my dear? ” 

He was in dead earnest. “ There are so few 
women — who pray — but I rather fancy that you 
must —” 

All around them was surging talk. “ How 
438 


SIX DAYS 


strange it seems,” Jean said, “ that we should be 
speaking of such things, here —” 

“ No,” Ralph said, “ it is not strange. I have a 
feeling that I shan’t come back.” 

Alma Drew on the other side of him claimed his 
attention. “ War is the great sensational oppor¬ 
tunity. And there are people who like patriotism 
of the sound-the-trumpet-beat-the-drum variety —” 

“ You said that rather cleverly, Alma,” Ralph 
told her, “ but you mustn’t forget that was the kind 
of patriotism our forefathers had, and it seemed 
rather effective.” 

“ Men aren’t machines,” Jean said hotly. i( They 
are flesh and blood, and so are women — a fife and 
drum or a bag-pipe means more to them than just 
crude music; the blood of their ancestors thrilled 
to the sound.” 

“ As savages thrill to a tom-tom.” 

They stared at her. 

“ It is all savage,” Alma said, crisply and coolly 
“ We are all murderers. We are teaching our men 
to run Germans through with bayonets, and trying 
to make ourselves think that they aren’t breaking 
the sixth commandment. Yet in times of peace, 
when a man kills he goes to the electric chair —” 

It was Derry who answered that. “ li in times 
of peace I heard you scream and saw you set upon 
by thieves and murderers, and stood with my hands 
439 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


in my pockets while you were tortured and killed, 
would you call my non-interference laudable? ” 

“ That’s different.’’ 

“ It is the same thing. The only difference lies 
in the fact that thousands of defenceless women and 
little children are calling. Would you have the na¬ 
tion stand with its hands in its pockets? ” 

Alma, cold as ice, challenged him: “ Why 
should they call to us? We’ll be sorry some day 
that we went into it.” 

Out of a dead silence, a man said: “ Not long 
ago, I went into a sweet shop in England. A 
woman came in with two children. They were rosy 
children and round. They carried muffs. 

“ She bought candy for them — and when she 
gave it to them, I saw that they had — no hands —” 
A gasp went round the table. 

“ They were Belgian children / 5 
That night Jean said to Derry with a sternness 
which set strangely upon her, “We must have 
friends in our House of Dreams. The latchstrings 
will always be out for people like Emily and Marion, 
and Drusilla, and Ulrich and Ralph —” 

“ Yes —” 

“ But not for Hilda and Alma.” 

THE NINTH DAY 

It was on the ninth day that Derry waked his wife 
at dawn. “ I’ve ordered the car. It rained in the 
440 


8IX DAYS 


nigM, and now — oh, there was never such a morn¬ 
ing; there may never be such a morning for as 
again.” 

“ What time is it, Derry? ” 

“ Sunrise time — come and see.” 

Her window faced the east, and she saw all the 
pearl of it, and the faint rose and the amethyst and 
gold. 

“We shall eat out breakfast ten miles from 
town,” Derry said, as their car carried him out into 
the country, “ and there’s a lovesome garden —” 

“ With old-fashioned flowers and a fountain and 
a Cupid? ” 

“ With all that — and more —” 

The garden belonged to an old woman. For 
years and years she had planted flowers — tulips 
and hyacinths and poppies and lilies and gladiolus 
and larkspur and phlox and ladyslipper — there 
had always been a riot of color. 

She had an old gardener, and she would standi 
over him, leaning on her silver-topped ebony cane, 
with a lace scarf covering her hair, and would point 
out the places to plant things. 

But now in her garden she had strawberries and 
Swiss chard and sweet herbs, and rows and rows of 
peas and young onions and potatoes, with a place 
left for corn at the back, and tomatoes in every 
spare space. 

And there was lettuce, and an asparagus bed, and 
441 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

everything on this May morning was shouting to 
the sun. 

“ I had always thought,” said the old lady to 
Derry, when he presented Jean, “ that a vegetable 
garden was uninteresting.. But it is a little world 

— with class distinctions of its own, if you please. 
All the really useful vegetables we call common; 
it is the ones we can do without which are the 
aristocrats. The potatoes and cabbages and onions 
are really important, but I am proudest of my 
young peas and my peppers and cucumbers and 
tomatoes, and that’s the way of the world, isn’t it? 
If there was only an aristocracy things would stop, 
but the common folk could go on alone until the 
end of time.” 

She gave Jean a blue bowl to pick strawberries 
in; and Derry dug asparagus — the creamy shoots 
were tipped with pale purple and pink, deepening 
into green where they had stood too long in the sun. 
“ Aren’t there any flowers? ” Jean was anxious. 
“ Come and see.” The old woman went ahead 
of them, her cane tap-tapping on the stone flags. 

She opened a gate which was flanked by brick 
walls. “ These,” she said, whimsically, “ are my 
jewels.” 

All the sweetness which had once spread over her 
domain was concentrated here, fragrance and flame 

— roses, iris, peonies — honeysuckle — ruby and 
emerald, amethyst and gold; a Cupid riding a swan, 

442 


SIX DAYS 

with water pouring from his quiver into a shallow 
marble basin. 

“ I should not have dared keep this, if it had not 
been for the other—” the old woman told them. 
“ I am very sure that in these days God walks in 
vegetable gardens —” 

For breakfast they had strawberries and rad' 
ishes, thin little corn cakes — and two fresh eggs 
from the chickens which most triumphantly occu¬ 
pied the conservatory. 

“ This is the only way I can do my bit,” the old 
lady explained, “ by helping with the world’s food 
supply. My eyes are bad and I cannot sew, my fin¬ 
gers are twisted and I cannot knit, and Dennis is 
old — but we plan the garden and plant —” 

And that night Jean said to Derry, “ I am glad 
there were flowers to make it lovesome — and I am 
glad there were vegetables to make it right.” 

So he drew a waving field of corn back of the 
dream cottage, and tomatoes and peas to the right 
and left — with onions in a stiff row along the bor¬ 
der, and potatoes storming the hillside. But the 
gate which led to the Lovesome Garden was open 
wide, so that one might see the Cupid as he rode 
his swan. 

THE LAST DAY 

It was on the tenth day that Derry said, “We 
have our house and the furniture for it, and we 
443 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


have built an altar, and found our friends, and we 
have planted a garden — what shall we do on the 
last day? ” 

And Jean said, rather unexpectedly, “We will go 
to the circus.” 

“ To the circus? ” 

“ Yes. And take the children — they are dying 
to go, and Margaret can’t. It is up to you and me, 
Derry.” 

Even Nurse was to stay behind. “ We’ll have 
them all to ourselves.” 

Derry was dubious, a little hurt. “ It seems 
rather queer, doesn’t it, on our last day? ” 

“I — I think I should like it better than any¬ 
thing else, Derry.” 

And so they went. 

It was warm with a hint of showers in the air, 
and both of the children were in white. Jean was 
also in white. They rede in the General’s limou¬ 
sine to where the big tent with all irts flags flying 
covered a vast spaee. 

u Cousin Derry, Mother said I might have some 
peanuts.” 

“ All right, old man.” 

“And Margaret-Mary mustn’t. But there are 
some crackers in a bag.” 

It was all most entrancing, the gilded wagons, 
the restless beasts behind their bars, the spotted 
444 


SIX DAYS 


ponies, the swaying elephants, the bands playing, 
the crowds streaming —. 

Teddy held tight to Jean’s hand. Margaret-Mary 
was carried high on Derry’s shoulder. All of her 
curls were bobbing, and her eyes were shining. 
Now and then she dropped a light kiss on the silver 
blond hair of her cavalier. 

“ Tousin Dee,” she murmured, affectionately. 

“ She’s an adorable kiddie,” Derry told Jean as 
they found their seats. 

“ Cousin Derry,” Teddy reminded him, “ don't 
forget the peanuts.” 

And now the trumpets blared and the drums 
boomed, and the great parade writhed like a glit¬ 
tering serpent around the huge circle, then broke up 
into various groups as the performance began in 
the rings. 

After that one needed all of one’s eyes. Teddy 
sat spellbound for a while, but found time at last to 
draw a long breath. “ Cousin Derry, that is the 
funniest clown —” 

“ The little one? ” 

“ The big one; oh, well, the little one, too.” 

Silence again while the elephants did amazing 
things in one ring, with Japanese tumblers in an¬ 
other, with piebald ponies beyond, and things being 
done on trapezes everywhere. 

Teddy slipped his hand into Derry’s. “ It’s —* 
445 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


It’s almost like haying Daddy/’ he confided. H I 
know he’s glad I’m here.” 

Derry’s big hand closed over the small one. “ I’m 
glad, too, old chap.” 

Margaret-Mary having gazed her fill, slept com¬ 
fortably in Jean’s arms. 

“ Let me hold her,” Derry said. 

Jean shook her head. “ I love to have her here.” 

She had taken off her hat, and as she bent above 
the child her hair made a halo of gold. In the 
midst of all the tawdriness she was a still and 
sacred figure — a Madonna with a child. 

Teddy, when he reached home, told the General 
all about it. 

“ It was be-yeutiful — but Cousin Jean cwied —” 

“ Cried? ” 

“ I saw a tear rwunning dow 7 n her cheek, and it 
splashed on Margaret-Mary’s nose—” 

And that night Derry said, “ My darling, what 
shall I draw in our book? ” 

“ The thing that you want most to remember, 
Derry.” 

So he drew 7 her all in white, bending over a child 
of dreams. 

The next morning, she told him “ Good-bye.” 
They had come along to the Toy Shop for their fare¬ 
well, so that there was only the old white elephant 
446 


SIX DAYS 

to see her tears, and the Lovely Dreams to be sorry 
for her. 

Yet her head was held high at the very last, and 
she was not sorry for herself. “ I am glad and 
proud to have you go, dearest. I am glad and 
proud —” 

And after he had gone, she worked until lunch 
time on the bandages and wipes, and rode with the 
General in the afternoon, with her hand in his, 
knowing that it comforted him. 

But very late that night, when every one else in 
the big house was fast asleep, she crept out into 
the hall in her lace robe and lace cap and pink 
slippers and stood beneath the picture of the 
painted lady. “ He will come back,” she said. 
u He must come back — and — oh, oh, Derry’s 
mother in Heaven — you must tell me how to live — 
without him — 


CHAPTER XXIX 

“ AND, AFTER ALL, HE CAME TO THE WARS! ” 

A perfect day, with men lying dead by thousands 
on the battlefield; twilight, with a young moon; 
night and the stars — 

Drusilla’s throat was dry with singing — there 
had been so many hurt, and she had found that it 
helped them to hear her, so when a moaning, groan¬ 
ing, cursing ambulance load stopped a moment, she 
sang; when walking wounded came through sag¬ 
ging with pain and dreadful weariness, she sang; 
and when night fell, and an engine was stalled, 
and she took in her own car a man who must be 
rushed to the first collecting station, she found 
herself still singing —. And this time it was “ The 
Battle Hymn of the Republic.” 

The man propped up beside her murmured, “ My 
Captain liked that — he used to sing it —” 

“ Yes? ” She was listening with only half an 
ear. There were so many Captains. 

“ He was engaged to an American.” 

She listened now. “ Your Captain — ? ” 

“ Captain Hewes.” 

She guided the ear steadily. “ Dawson Hewes? ” 

a Yes. Do you know him? ” 

448 


“HE CAME TO THE WARS!” 


“ I — I am the girl he is going to marry —” 

He froze into silence. She bent towards him* 
“ What made yon say — was — ? ” 

“ He’s — gone West —” 

“ Dead? ” 

“Yes.” 

“When?” She still drove steadily through the 
dark. 

“ To-day.” 

She looked up at the stars. So — he would neves? 
come blowing in with the sweet spring winds. 

“ I’d rather have been — shot — than to have told 
you that —” the man beside her was saying, “ but, 
you see, I didn’t know you were the girl —” 

“ Of course you couldn’t. You mustn’t blame 
yourself.” 

She delivered her precious charge at the hospital 
and put up her car for the night. Standing alone 
under the stars she wondered what she should do 
next. There was no one to tell — the women who 
had worked with her in the town which had since 
been recaptured by the Germans had gone to other 
towns. But she had stayed as near the front as 
possible, and she had never felt lonely because at 
any moment her lover might come — there had al¬ 
ways been the thought that he might come —. 

And now he would never come! 

She had a room in the house of an old woman, all 
of whose sons were in the war. So far two of them 
449 


TEE TIN SOLDIER 


had escaped death. But the old woman said often, 
fatalistically, “ They will not always escape — but 
it will be for France.” 

The old woman had soup on the fire for Drusilla’s 
supper. The room was faintly lighted. “ What is 
it?” she asked, as the girl dropped down on the 
doorstep. 

“ My Captain is dead —” 

The old woman rose and stood over her. “ It 
comes to all.” 

“ I know.” 

“ Will you eat your soup? When the heart fails, 
the body must have strength.” 

Drusilla covered her face with her hands. The 
room was very still. The old woman went back to 
her chair by the fire and waited. At last she rose 
and filled a small bowl with the soup — she broke 
into it a small allowance of bread. Then she came 
and sat on the step beside the girl. 

“Eat, Mademoiselle,” she said, with something 
like authority, and Drusilla obeyed. And when she 
gave back the bowl, the old woman set it on the 
floor, and drew the girl’s head to her breast. 

And Drusilla lay there, crying softly, a lonely 
American mothered by this indomitable old woman 
of France. 

Days passed, days in which men came and men 
went and Drusilla sang to them. And now new 
faces were seen among the tired and war-worn ones. 

450 


“HE CAME TO THE WARS!” 


Eager young Americans, pressing forward towards 
the front, found a countrywoman in the little town, 
and they wrote home about her. “ She’s a beauty, 
by jinks, and when she sings it pulls the heart out 
of you. She’s the kind you want to say your pray¬ 
ers to.” 

So her fame went forth and took on gradually 
something of the supernatural — her tall, straight 
slenderness, her steady eyes, her halo of red hair 
grew to have a sort of sacred significance, like that 
of some militant young saint. 

Then came a day when Derry’s regiment marched 
through the town to the trenches, spent an interval, 
and came back, awed by what it had seen, but un¬ 
daunted. 

Drusilla, sitting on the doorstej) of the stone 
house, saw a tall figure striding down the street. 
He stopped to speak to an old woman and doffed his 
hat, showing a clipped silver-blond head. 

Drusilla went flying through the dusk. “ Derry, 
Derry! ” 

He stared and stared again. “Is it you?” he 
asked. Nothing was vivid now about Drusilla ex¬ 
cept her hair. 

“ Yes.” 

He took her hands in his. “ My dear girl.” It 
was hard for either of them to speak. 

“ Did Bruce McKenzie tell you that my Captain 
has — gone West? ” 


451 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“I had a letter. I haven't seen him. His hos¬ 
pital isn’t far from here, I understand.” 

“ Just outside. He — he has been a great help 

— to me, Derry.” 

She took him back to her doorstep and they sat 
down. 

“ Tell me about Jean.” 

He tried to tell her, wavered a little and spoke 
the truth. “ The hardest thing was leaving her. 
I don’t mind the fighting. I don’t mind anything 
but the fact that she’s over there and I’m over here. 
But it had to be — of course.” 

“ Yes, everything had to be, Derry. I am believ¬ 
ing that more and more. When my Captain went 

— I found how much I cared. I hadn’t always been 
sure. But I am sure now, and I am sure, too, that 
he knows — 99 

“ Love — in these times, Derry — isn’t building a 
nest — and singing songs in the tree tops on a May 
morning; it goes beyond just the man and the 
woman; it even goes beyond the child. It goes as 
far as the future of mankind. What the future of 
the world will be depends not so much on how much 
you love Jean or she loves you, or on how much I 
loved and was loved, but on how much that love 
will mean to the world. If we can’t give up our 
own for the sake of the world’s ideal then love 
hasn’t meant what it should to you and to me, 
Derry —” 


452 


“HE CAME TO THE WARE!” 


She rose as a group of men approached. (( They 
want me to sing for them. You won’t mind? ” 

“ My dear girl, I have heard of you everywhere. 
I believe that some of the fellows say their prayers 
to you at night —” 

She stood up and sang. Her hair caught the 
light from the room back of her. She gave them a 
popular air or two, a hymn, “ The Marseillaise —■” 
He missed nothing in her then. In spite of her 
paleness, the old fire was there, the passion of pa^ 
triotism — there was, too, a new note of triumphant 
faith. 

She needed no candles now, no red and white and 
blue for a background — she did not even need her 
beauty, her voice was enough — 

When she sat down and the men had gone she said 
to Derry, “ Do you remember when I last sang the 
‘ Marseillaise ’ for you? ” 

“ Yes.” 

He brought out from his pocket a tiny object and 
set it on the step, so that the light from the open 
door shone on it. 

“ You gave it to me, Drusilla.” 

“ Oh, my little tin soldier.” 

“ And after all, he came to the wars —” 

Very proudly the little soldier shouldered his 
musket. 

He had indeed come to the wars, and the winds 
of France blew upon him, the stars of France were 
453 


THE TIN SOLDIER 

over his head, the soil of France was beneath his 
feet. 

Trutter-a-trutt, trutter-a-trutt — blew all the 
bugles of France, and the little tin soldier was at 
last content! 

Derry had, too, in his pocket a letter from Jean. 
He read to Drusilla the part that belonged to her. 

“ Tell Drusilla that there’s a chair in our dream 
house for her. I often shut my eyes and see her in 
it, and I see Daddy and you, Derry, all home safe 
from the war and the world at peace — 77 

“ Safe and at home and the world at peace —. 
Will the time ever come, Derry? ” 

u You know it will come. It must — 77 
It was three days later that Dr. McKenzie mo¬ 
tored over for a late supper with Drusilla and 
Derry. They were served by the old woman who 
had mothered the lonely girl. 

“ To think,” the Doctor said, as they sat at their 
frugal board, “ to think that we three should be here 
in the midst of all this; and yet a year ago I was 
wondering what to do with the rest of my life, Dru¬ 
silla was running around telling people what kind 
of pictures to put on their walls, and what kind of 
draperies to put at their windows, and Derry was 
trying to pretend that he was not an elegant idler; 
and now — we are seeing a world made over — 77 
“ You are seeing the world of men made over / 7 
454 


“HE CAME TO TEE WARS!” 


said Drusilla, “ but the most wonderful thing is 
seeing the women made over.” 

“ I don’t want to see the women made over,” the 
Doctor groaned. “ They are nice enough as it is. I 
want my little Jean gay and smiling — and Derry 
tells me that she is a nun in a white veil.” 

“ She is more than that,” Derry said, and a great 
light came into his eyes. “ I sometimes feel that 
she and Drusilla are holding hands across the sea 
— two brave women in different spheres.” 

Drusilla, wise Drusilla pondered. “ Perhaps the 
war will teach men like Bruce that women aren’t 
playthings —” 

“ Don’t be too hard on me, Drusilla.” 

“ I am not hard. I am telling the truth.” 

“ I’ll forgive you, because in these weeks you’ve 
taught me a lot —” Bruce McKenzie’s world 
would not have recognized in this tired and serious 
gentleman its twinkling, teasing man of medicine. 

Weary feet on the stones — 

“ I must go to them,” Drusilla said. 

She went out on the step. They saw the men 
cluster about her — French and English, Scotch — 
a few Americans. 

Her voice soared: 

ss In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea, 
With the glory in his bosom which transfigures you and me. 

As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free —b 
W hile God is marching on —” 


THE TIN SOLDIER 


“ Look,” said the Doctor. “ Do you see theif 
faces, Derry? ” 

Gazing up at her as if they drank her in, the men 
listened. She was the daughter of a nation of 
dreamers, the daughter of a nation which made its 
dreams come true. 

Tired and spent, they saw in her hope personified. 
They saw America coming fresh and unworn to fight 
a winning battle to the end. So they turned their 
faces towards Drusilla. She was more to them 
than a singing woman. Behind her stood a stead¬ 
fast people — and God was marching on. 


THE ENB 


456 


“The Books You Like to Read 
at the Price You Like to Pay ” 


There Are Two Sides 
to Everything— 

—including the wrapper which covers 
every Grosset & Dunlap book. When 
you feel in the mood for a good ro¬ 
mance, refer to the carefully selected list 
of modern fiction comprising most of 
the successes by prominent writers of 
the day which is printed on the back of 
every Grosset & Dunlap book wrapper. 

You will find more than five hundred 
titles to choose from—books for every 
mood and every taste and every pocket- 
book. 

Don't forget the other side , but in case 
the wrapper is lost , write to the publishers 
for a complete catalog. 


There is a Grosset & Dunlap Book 
for every mood and for every taste 








ROMANCES OF THE MODERN GIRL 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's List. 

Here is a list of books by well known writers of romance stories 
for the modern girl. They are writers whose names have become 
famous with the publication- of their stories as newspaper serials. 
These books are now available in the Grosset & Dunlap Edition. 


MAY CHRISTIE 

The High Speed Girl 
Flirting Wives 
The Jazz Widow 
A Kiss For Corinna 
Eager Love 
Man Madness 
Love’s Ecstasy 

ALMA SIOUX SCARBERRY 
Make-Up 

The Dimpled Racketeer 
The Flat Tire 
High Hat 

BEATRICE BURTON 
Lovejoy 

The Little Yellow House 
Easy 

Money Love 

The Hollywood Girl 

Honey Lou 

The Flapper Wife 

ROBERT D. ANDREWS 

The Stolen Husband 
Three Girls Lost 
One Girl Found 


ROB EDEN 
$20 a Week 
The Lovely Liar 
Step-Child 
Love Blind 

The Girl with Red Hair 

ELENORE MEHERIN 

Miss Pat 

Jerry 

Chickie 

Chickie, A Sequel 
Nora Lee 
Sandy 

LAURA LOU BROOKMAN 

Guilty Lips 
Mad Marriage 
Heart Hungry 

As No Woman Hath Loved 
Her Love Problem 
Playmate 
The Heart Bandit 

JANE DIXON 
Miss Hard Boiled 
ANNE GARDNER 
Working Wives 
Masquerade 


GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK 






















THE NOVELS OF SINCLAIR LEWIS 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s List. 

Within the space of a few years Sinclair Lewis has become one of the 
most Distinguished of American Novelists. 


ELMER GANTRY 

Elmer Gantry, hypocrite and voluptuary, is painted against a 
background of church members and professing Christians scarcely 
less hypocritical than he. In this book Sinclair Lewis adds a vio¬ 
lent stroke to his growing picture of materialistic America. 

MANTRAP 

A clever satire on the adventures of a New York lawyer seek¬ 
ing rest and diversion in the northwoods. Instead of rest he finds 
trouble in the person of his host’s wife—young, pretty and flir¬ 
tatious. 

ARROWSMITH 

The story of a country doctor whose search for truth led him 
to the heights of the medical profession, to the heights and 
depths of love and marriage and to final peace as a quietly heroic 
labo r atory worker in the backwoods of Vermont. 

BABBITT 

Every man will recognize in the character of George Babbitt, 
something of himself. He was a booster and a joiner, but behind 
all of his activities was a wistful wonder as to what life holds. 

MAIN STREET 

Carol Kennicott’s attempt to bring life and culture to Gopher 
Prairie and Gopher Prairie’s reaction toward her teachings have 
made this book one of the most famous of the last decade. 


GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK 






















RUBY M. AYRES’ NOVELS 

May be bought wherever books are sold. Ask for Cresset & Dunlap’s fist. 

IN THE DAY’S MARCH 
LOVERS 
ONE SUMMER 
LOVE CHANGES 
LIFE STEPS IN 
BROKEN 

CHARITY'S CHOSEN 

THE PLANTER OF THE TREE 

SPOILT MUSIC 

THE MAN WITHOUT A HEART 
A BACHELOR HUSBAND 
THE SECOND HONEYMOON 

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK 
























NOVELS BY TEMPLE BAILEY 


May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. 


BURNING BEAUTY 

Beautiful Virginia Oliphant is loved by two men ; one tempts .ier with 
millions, and the other tempts her with nothing more than his devotion. 

SILVER SLIPPERS 

Days of delight and disillusionment until Joan Dudley s Knight actually 
came. 

WALLFLOWERS 

They were twins, they were “ Wallflowers ” perhaps—but they were 
beautiful, and young and real. 

THE BLUE WINDOW 

Hildegarde finds herself transplanted from the middle western farm to 
the gay social whirl of the East. 

PEACOCK FEATHERS 

Jerry, the idealist, loves Mimi, a beautiful spoiled society girl. A conflict 
of wealth andjove. 

THE DIM LANTERN 

The romance of little Jane Barnes who is loved by two men. 

THE GAY COCKADE 

Unusual short stories fin which Miss Bailey shows her knowledge of 
character and her skill [in romance tales. 

TRUMPETER SWAN 

Randy Paine came back from France to the monotony of everyday 
affairs. But a girl showed him the beauty in the commonplace. 

THE TIN SOLDIER 

Derry wishes to serve his country but is bound by a tie he cannot in 
honor break. Jean loves him and shares his humiliation to help him win. 

MISTRESS ANNE 

Into the life of Anne came two men : one is weak and the other strong 
and they both need Anne. 

CONTRARY MARY 

An old fashioned love story that has a very modern application. 

GLORY OF YOUTH 

An old question yet ever new—how far should an engagement of 
marriage bind two persons who find they no long er love ? __ 


GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK 





















*BECT&-sc«ra: 


MARGARET PEDLER’S NOVELS 


May ba had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grossst & Dunlap’s list. 


FIRE OF YOUTH 

Phyllis had to make her choice between Terry, who was young and 
penniless, and Timothy, who was wealthy, attractive and middle-aged. 

THE GUARDED HALO 

The story of a girl and a man who threw away honor and reputation 
to protect untarnished the memory of a friend. 

BITTER HERITAGE 

She learned that her father, the man she had idolized, was a thief 
and a swindler—a bitter heritage not to be escaped. 

YESTERDAY’S HARVEST 

The harvest of an early love brings a strange situation and triumph. 

rvf cQprinf'p 

TOMORROW’S TANGLE 

The game of love is fraught with danger. Tol win in the finest sense 
it must be played fairly. 

RED ASHES 

A gripping story of a doctor who failed in a crucial operation and 
had only himself to blame. Could the woman he loved forgive him? 

THE BARBARIAN LOVER 

A love story based upon the creed that the only important things 
between birth and death are the courage to face life and the love 
to sweeten it. 

THE MOON OUT OF REACH 

Nan Davenport’s problem is one that many a girl has faced—-her 
own happiness or her father’s bond. 

THE HOUSE OF DREAMS COME TRUE 

How a man and a woman fulfilled a gypsy’s prophecy. 

THE HERMIT OF FAR END 

How love made its way into a walled-in house and a walled-in heart. 

THE LAMP OF FATE 

The story of a woman who tried to take all and give nothing. 

THE SPLENDID FOLLY 

Do! you believe that husbands and wives should have no secrets 
from each other ? 

THE VISION OF DESIRE 

It is easy to destroy illusions, difficult to restore them. Anne re¬ 
stored love from the ashes of disillusion. 

WAVES OF DESTINY 

Each of these stories has the sharp impact of an emotional crisis— 
the compressed quality of one of Margaret Pedlar’s widely read novels, 


GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK 














ZANE GREY’S NOVELS 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list. 


THE SHEPHERD OF OF GUADALOUPE 
FIGHTING CARAVANS 
WILD HORSE MESA 
NEVADA 

FORLORN RIVER 

UNDER THE TONTO RIM 

THE VANISHING AMERICAN 

TAPPAN’S BURRO 

THE THUNDERING HERD 

THE CALL OF THE CANYON 

WANDERER OF THE WASTELAND 

THE DAY OF THE BEAST 

TO THE LAST MAN 

THE MYSTERIOUS RIDER 

THE MAN OF THE FOREST 

THE DESERT OF WHEAT 

THE U. P. TRAIL 

WILDFIRE 

THE BORDER LEGION 
THE RAINBOW TRAIL 
THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT 
RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE 
LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 
THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN 
THE LONE STAR RANGER 
DESERT GOLD 
BETTY ZANE 

ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYS 

ROPING LIONS IN THE GRAND CANYON 

THE RED-HEADED OUTFIELD 

KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE 

THE YOUNG LION HUNTER 

THE YOUNG FORESTER 

THE YOUNG PITCHER 

THE SHORT STOP 


GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers , NEW YORK 
















JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD’S 

STORIES OF ADVENTURE 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list 
GREEN TIMBER 
THE LADY OF PERIBONKA 
THE PLAINS OF ABKAHAM 
SWIFT LIGHTNING 
THE BLACK HUNTER 
THE ANCIENT HIGHWAY 
A GENTLEMAN OF COURAGE 
THE ALASKAN 
THE COUNTRY BEYOND 
THE FLAMING FOREST 
THE VALLEY OF SILENT MEN 
THE RIVER’S END 
THE GOLDEN SNARE 
BACK TO GOD'S COUNTRY 
THE WOLF HUNTERS 
THE GOLD HUNTERS 
NOMADS OF THE NORTH 
KAZAN 

THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM 

BAREE, SON OF KAZAN 

THE DANGER TRAIL 

THE COURAGE OF MARGE O’DOONE 

THE HUNTED WOMAN 

THE FLOWER OF THeTNORTH 

THE GRIZZLY KING 

iSOBEL 

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers , NEW YORK 









































JACKSON GREGORY’S NOVELS 

May be had wherever books ar& sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s List. 


MYSTERY AT SPANISH HACIENDA 

The story of Rapidan, who thought it fun to buy his cat in a sack, and 
who came upon adventures thick and fast. 

SENTINEL OF THE DESERT 

A fascinating story of mystery, adventure and love in the dangerous 
days of the old Southwest. 

EMERALD TRAILS 

Hard riding, reckless adventure—a story based upon the smuggling 
of jewels from the Orient through the redwoods of California. 

REDWOOD AND GOLD 

A romance of the Redwood forests and a fight for the control of an 
old ranch and the gold that is hidden on it. 

CAPTAIN CAVALIER 

A romance of Old California in the days of the Spanish Aristocracy. 

A DESERT THOROUGHBRED 

The thrilling adventures of Camilla Darrel across the Mexican border. 

THE MAID OF THE MOUNTAIN 

A thrilling story about a lovely girl who flees to the mountains to 
avoid an obnoxious suitor—and finds herself suspected of murder. 

THE EVERLASTING WHISPER 

Tells of a strong man’s struggle against savage, nature and of a 
girl’s regeneration from a spoiled child of wealth into a courageous, 
strong-willed woman. 

MAN TO MAN 

How* Steve won his game and the girl he loved is a story filled with 
breathless situations. 


THE BELLS OF SAN JUAN 

Dr. Virginia Page is forced to go with tire sheriff on a night 
journey into the strongholds of a lawless) band. 

JUDITH OF BLUE LAKE RANCH 

Judith Sanford, part owner of a cattle ranch, realizes that she is 
being robbed by her foreman. With the help of Bud Lee she check¬ 
mates Trevor’s scheme. 

THE JOYOUS TROUBLE MAKER 

A reporter sets up housekeeping close to Beatrice’s ranch, much to 
her chagrin. There is another man who. complicates matters. 

WOLF BREED 

No Luck Brennan, a woman hater, finds a match m Ygerne whose 
clever fencing wins the admiration and love of the Lone Wolf. 


GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK 




















Detective Stories By J. S. Fletcher 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list 

J. S. Fletcher’s mystery-detective stories of the puzzle 
variety have made him the generally acknowledged suc¬ 
cessor to Conan Doyle in this field. 

THE TIME-WORN TOWN 

THE MATHESON FORMULA 

THE YORKSHIRE MOORLAND MURDER 

THE BORGIA CABINET 

PARADISE COURT 

THE ORANGE-YELLOW DIAMOND 

THE MARKENMORE MYSTERY 

MURDER IN THE PALLANT 

THE RAYNER-SLADE AMALGAMATION 

THE MAZAROFF MYSTERY 

THE CARTWRIGHT GARDENS MURDER 

THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER 

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK 




















































































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